


(show me how) bleeding heart still pounds

by iamremy, YuriOokino



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothertouching, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Season 10 AU, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2015, caretaker!Dean, sick!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/iamremy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuriOokino/pseuds/YuriOokino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon Divergent AU from <em>10x18 - Book of the Damned</em> onward. Rowena comes to Sam with a deal - the Cure for the Mark in exchange for the Book and the Men of Letters bunker. Desperate to have his brother back, Sam agrees, not paying heed to the consequences.</p><p>What follows leaves Sam under a curse (seriously, <em>fuck</em> curses) and Dean drinking excessively as they try to deal with their grief over the death of an old friend, while simultaneously trying to repair their broken relationship. It's not pretty and it sure as hell ain't going to be easy, but they'll get there... eventually. They <em>have</em> to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(show me how) bleeding heart still pounds

**Author's Note:**

> This 30K behemoth is my first ever submission for the Supernatural J2 Big Bang, and as such I've put more work into this than I have into my finals tbh. I was lucky to be paired up with the amazing and lovely and just utterly _perfect_ Yuri, who's done the art you'll find throughout the fic.  
> [Art masterpost.](http://yuriookino.livejournal.com/3265.html)
> 
> Special thanks goes to [Sanjana](http://spnxbookworm.tumblr.com) and [Pooja](http://winchesterpooja.tumblr.com), who convinced me to do this, provided endless motivation and feedback, and were always there for me when I had fic-induced breakdowns. Honestly, they have always, _always_ been there to listen to me bitch and whine about everything on this planet, and I cannot begin to encapsulate what they mean to me. I love you two so, so much.
> 
> Special mention for my beta, of course - [Dri](http://sxviorsam.tumblr.com) aka sweetest sunshiniest loveliest person I've ever had the pleasure of being electronically introduced to. I am so, so glad you emailed me like fifty years ago - now I can't imagine my life without you in it. Thank you _so much_ for your help and your delightfully reliable feedback, for listening to me cry about this fic and just for being there for me in general. I love you, man  <3
> 
> Now that that's done with, let's move to the fic, yeah?

## 

## NOW

Dean finds Sam in the war room, seated at a table dressed in his pajamas and a thin t-shirt, staring off into space. He sighs to himself and taps Sam lightly on the shoulder, causing him to jump. “Jesus, Dean,” Sam says plaintively, looking up at him, “don't do that.”

“You all right?” Dean asks, taking the seat across from Sam.

Sam nods. “Yeah, man, I'm fine,” he says patiently. “Really, Dean. I'm good.”

Dean looks at him critically, as if gauging the truth of his statement. Evidently satisfied, he nods and says, “Okay, Sammy. If you say so.” He holds in the urge to ask how long Sam's been sitting there, and if he's had anything to eat or not. Hovering too much is just going to make Sam clam up, and if that happens there's not a snowball's chance in hell that Dean will get anything out of him. He's not really talking much as it is. Probably he's exhausted from the curse, and would rather not talk at all than risk giving away too much by not shutting up at all.

“You find anything?” Dean asks, closely watching Sam under the guise of looking at him inquisitively.

Sam frowns at Dean, then at the laptop in front of him. Dean can tell he knows he's being watched, going by the way his shoulders tense up, posture guarded. “Couple of weird deaths,” he says shortly, sliding the laptop over to Dean. “Might be a case.”

Dean scans through the article that's on the screen, and then glances up at Sam, who looks away just a split-second too late. Great, so Sam's watching him too. “Let's check it out,” Dean says, deliberately choosing not to comment. “It's not far from here. I'll meet you by the car in ten?”

Sam nods, getting up. “Okay. Uh, what about you?” he adds, frowning at Dean again. “Are _you_ all right?”

“Yeah, 'course I am,” Dean says at once, too quick to be believable. “I'm not the one with a curse on me, man,” he adds, hoping to deflect but at the same time knowing it won’t work.

“No, I meant, about Cas,” Sam begins, before clamping his lips together tightly to prevent himself from saying anymore. “I'm just concerned, is all,” he finally says. “I know you're having trouble sleeping, and you eat too little and drink too much. I don't think you're okay, Dean.” He looks mortified the minute he finishes, realizing he's talked too much.

“Yeah, well, I think you need to keep it shut for a while,” snaps Dean before he can stop himself. Immediately Sam's face falls, and dammit, Dean really hates this curse. It's hard to deal with the way emotions show so clearly on his face now, mainly because he's never noticed it before. Sam's great at hiding stuff he doesn't want others to know, like the fact that, _Jesus Christ_ , he'd tried to kill himself right after Lucifer told him he’s his true vessel–

Dean shakes his head, rids himself of the unpleasant thoughts, and sees that he's alone – Sam must've gone to get ready. He sighs to himself again and heads to his own room.

 

 

 

## THEN

“What the fuck,” Dean mouthed to Sam, who had his arms full of a desperately sobbing middle-aged woman. Sam just shook his head back at Dean and continued awkwardly patting her on the back.

“There, there,” he said, immediately grimacing at how forced and cliché the words sounded. “It's okay, Mrs. Hill. It's all good. You're, uh, all right, I guess.”

Dean snorted into his coffee. Mrs. Hill cried harder.

“I just wish it wasn't so hard,” she sobbed into Sam's bicep. He tried to focus on stopping her waterworks and not how he'd have to give the suit in for dry-cleaning to get the snot off. “I mean, I understand people die, but it was so, so _violent_ and _sudden_ and I just can't deal, you know? Our marriage was never perfect, you know. He kept saying I was frigid and not sexually interested in him but he never could get it up either. And I found out he had another woman. But that doesn't mean I wanted him dead, _ever_!”

Sam patted her back some more, making a face at Dean trying to hold his laughter in. “It's not funny,” he mouthed over Mrs. Hill's head to Dean. “Uh... how did you say your husband died?” he asked her out loud.

“I didn't,” she hiccupped. “Oh, Agent Grohl, it was _terrible_. He just... it was so _bad_. I'll never forget what I saw.”

“What was it?” Dean asked, trying and failing to look sombre. He just looked a little constipated.

“A heart attack,” she replied, and let out a wail. “Oh, my poor dear Jack!” There was a blowing sound, and Sam looked horrified. Dean couldn't control himself any longer – he burst out laughing, and then immediately had to disguise it as a coughing fit when Mrs. Hill turned to look at him in shock.

“I don't know, Sammy, I think you should go back,” he joked a few minutes later, as they took their leave of Mrs. Hill and made their way towards the Impala parked at the end of her driveway. “She looks like she kinda needs you.”

“Shut up,” grumbled Sam, gingerly taking his suit jacket off and throwing it in the backseat. “I feel traumatized.” He got into the front passenger seat and closed the door, just as Dean did the same.

“Didn't seem like much of a case, though,” he commented once the car was going. “Guy was 55, obese, smoker, had a history of heart disease. Seems completely ordinary to me. Sad, but ordinary.”

“Probably got too excited during sex with his girlfriend,” mused Dean.

“She said he couldn't get it up,” Sam pointed out.

“He couldn't get it up with _her_ ,” Dean amended. “And come on, Sammy, if she's as emotional during sex as she was now, it's not hard to see why.”

“Did you honestly just compare sex to a woman's husband dying?” Sam asked incredulously. “I'd say she had every right to be emotional, Dean.”

“Yeah, but the entire, clinging to you and sobbing out her whole life story, that part? Bit over the top, don't you think, Sammy?” Dean said, taking one hand off the wheel and waving it around Sam for emphasis. “She said it herself, the marriage wasn't great. Why's she that broken up?”

Sam shrugged. “Whatever it is, man. Not much of a case. Unless there's a monster that somehow makes its victims cry a lot,” he added with a sarcastic scoff.

“Let's just stick around for a couple more days,” Dean decided. “If there's nothing, awesome. If something does happen, though, we'll check it out.”

“All right,” Sam agreed.

 

They'd just gotten back to the motel when Sam's phone rang – it was the town's Sheriff, calling to say they had another dead man. Dean, who'd just opened a beer, made a face, but put his jacket back on anyway, before stopping in his tracks and grinning at Sam. “Your jacket's got snot all over the sleeve,” he pointed out.

Sam grimaced. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered. “I've got a spare in the Impala, so no biggie.”

“Pity,” Dean said happily as they stepped back outdoors, Sam locking the door, “I'd have loved to see what the boys at the Sheriff's office thought.”

“Who gives a crap?” questioned Sam, getting out his spare jacket and checking it for dust before putting it on. “They knew we were going to question the vic's wife, so tears and snot were probably a given.”

“That many, though?” Dean said, still grinning as he got into the car and started up the engine. “She really did a number on you, Sammy.”

“Hey, she was grieving,” Sam said, shutting his own door and folding himself into the seat. “A few tears and some snot is totally allowed.”

“Yeah, but it was much more than a few,” Dean reminded him. “She was really broken up, Sammy. I've got half a mind to drop you back so you can _comfort_ her.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Sam, who swatted his arm.

“Leave it to you to make everything sound dirty,” he muttered. Dean just grinned, looking for all the world like he was proud of himself.

Sam let it slide; he could tell that Dean was doing his best to act like his normal self, joking and bantering, in an effort to fight the Mark’s hold on him. It was obvious that Dean was trying his best to mask his irritation at everything with jokes in the hopes that his homicidal urges wouldn’t get the best of him, and Sam wasn’t going to be the one to point it out and put Dean on the spot, which might make Dean revert to his irritable, easily provoked self.

So Sam just scoffed and rolled his eyes in an easy imitation of his usual reaction to Dean’s antics, and pretended that there wasn’t a huge Mark-shaped elephant in the Impala.

 

“Mark Dunne,” the Sheriff told them, when they arrived and all the niceties were done with. “Died of a heart attack, it looks like, which ain't unusual... 'cept the man was healthy as a horse. Ran in marathons, ate nothin but salad, thin as a wire, ya know the type. He wasn't that old either, just 'bout forty-five I'd say, so this one came outta left field. His widow's sure that it wasn't natural, something musta induced it. We're waitin on the autopsy right now, and after that you two gentleman can take a look.”

“Right, thanks,” Sam said. “Can we get the widow's address, Sheriff?”

The man nodded, writing it down on a Post-It note and handing it to Sam. “Be easy on her, alright?” he said. “She's a friend of my wife's. Nice people. She's just had a loss, don't go makin it harder for her.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Dean said breezily. “Come on, then, Agent Grohl, let's get to work.”

If they thought that Mrs. Hill had been bad, that was nothing compared to Angela Dunne. She started out okay enough, offering them tea and biscuits, face pale and eyes red, but that was to be expected from a woman who'd just suddenly lost her husband. She held herself well throughout the beginning, answering the questions posed to her in a more or less calm manner... until Dean asked about the state of her marriage.

“Oh, _Jesus_ ,” she managed to say, before two fat tears fell out of her eyes and she broke down sobbing. Alarmed, Sam reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, Mrs. Dunne...” he began, rubbing her arm a bit. “We're really sorry, Mrs. Dunne. I know it must be hard.”

Without any warning she launched herself at the nearest Winchester – Sam – and threw her arms around him, weeping loudly into his chest. Dean's mouth twitched as he wavered between sympathy and hilarity, before finally popping a biscuit into his mouth and chewing rather aggressively so that he wouldn't laugh. Sam glared at him over Mrs. Dunne's head even as he patted her back. Twice in just as many hours. Fucking _perfect_. There went his spare jacket.

“He was _such_ a wonderful man,” Angela sobbed, clutching at Sam's shirt. He could already feel the wetness forming where her tears soaked into his shirt, and it made him uncomfortable but there was nothing he could do, not while she had a vice-like grip on him and was crying her eyes out. “But by God he wasn't a very good husband, you know? Always – always came home late and got so _snappy_ when I asked about it. Made me think he had another woman, and I'm not gonna lie, Agent, I was so – so _angry_. I did shout so much at him, you know. But, Jesus, he's _gone_ now and I was so mad at him and now – _now_ I realize we could've just talked it out but we didn't, and I was being so ridiculously _distant_ from him! And now he's never coming _back_!”

Dean's mouth was slightly open as he took all of this in – her bawling, Sam's distinctly uneasy expression and the tense way he held himself as she cried. There was something off about the entire scenario, and it wasn't just that the biscuits tasted stale. “Mrs. Dunne,” he said, trying his best to sound sympathetic. “Is there anyone who'd want to harm your husband?”

She hiccupped, and cried harder, her grip on Sam tightening.

“Mrs. Dunne,” Dean repeated, a bit more firm this time, trying his best not to let the ever-present irritation creep into his tone. “We'd appreciate if you calmed down a little. We're very sorry for your loss, but we need you to help us out, please.”

That seemed to do the trick, though she was still crying silently as she pulled away from Sam. The front of his white shirt was wet and sticking to his skin, and Dean tried his best to maintain a straight face as Sam groaned silently and buttoned up his jacket to hide it. “What did you say?” Mrs. Dunne hiccupped.

Dean repeated his question, and this time he did sound annoyed.

“Well, not that I know of,” she said, stuttering a little, breathing hard from her crying session, face red and splotchy. “He was very – very loved. No, I don't think there's anyone who'd want to harm him.”

Dean nodded, and Sam said, “One last thing, Mrs. Dunne. Did you notice anything weird lately, any strange smells, cold spots, flickering lights...?”

She shook her head, looking a little confused. “No,” she said. “Why? Should I have?”

Dean offered her a forced smile and handed her a card. “Just covering all bases, ma'am. If anything comes up, though, let us know.”

“Still think it's not a case?” he asked Sam, once they were back out in the car.

“What could it be, though?” Sam wondered. “All we know for sure is that both vics died of heart attacks, and both their wives seem to think they were cheating.”

“And both wives found your embrace very comforting,” Dean sniggered. “Seriously, Sammy, what's that about? Since when do you appeal so much to middle-aged suburban moms?”

Sam made a face at him. “Shut up, Dean,” he sighed, already knowing there was no point. “The connections between the vics are pretty shaky,” he said a moment later. “Both died of heart attacks... but one was healthy and the other wasn't. Could be a coincidence.”

“Could be a case, too,” Dean countered. “Angry spirit, you think?”

“They didn't notice any cold spots or flickering lights,” Sam pointed out. “Witch?”

“Maybe,” Dean replied. “Or maybe it's something else. Let's check for hexbags, and if there's nothing then at least we can cross that off our list.”

Sam nodded. “All right, then.”

## NOW

“Hey,” Dean says softly, turning down the music so that they can talk. “I didn't mean that. What I said earlier.” It's the closest to an apology he's going to give.

“You did,” Sam contradicts simply, still looking listlessly out the window like he's been doing since they set out forty-five minutes ago. “You didn't like that I called you out on the drinking and not sleeping. And you know I'm right. So you snapped at me because you don't want to accept to yourself that you have a problem.” For once he doesn't look concerned that he's said too much.

“Jesus, Sam, I'm sorry,” Dean sighs. “Look, you're right, that I know you're right. But just... let me deal, okay? None of this is easy on me either, you know. Let me deal.”

“I don't care how you deal, as long as it's in a healthy way,” Sam says, finally looking at him, and God but he looks miserable. “I... I can't lose you too, Dean.” The admission, although brought on by a curse, is nevertheless true, and Dean knows it too.

He reaches out and takes Sam's hand, squeezing it lightly. “You won't,” he promises firmly. “I'm not going anywhere, all right, Sammy?”

“I know,” Sam says, reciprocating the gesture, and he still looks like he might cry any second but he offers Dean a smile anyway, a soft little shadow of what Dean's used to seeing on his little brother's face. Dean waits for him to say something more, as he's come to expect over the past few days, but for once Sam doesn't. Which means he's got nothing more to say.

Dean doesn't continue the conversation, but he doesn't turn the music back up either. He just holds his brother's hand and continues driving, ignoring the lump in his throat or the sting just behind his eyes, and wishing that for once, they'd catch a break. For fuck's sake... just _once_ in their lives.

“It wouldn't be this hard if we didn't know what's ahead for him,” Sam says softly some time later.

“There's _nothing_ ahead for him,” Dean says shortly, knowing without asking who Sam's talking about.

“Exactly,” Sam replies, the corners of his mouth pulling down, eyes watering just a little. Another short silence follows, and then he says, “Someone's got to tell Claire.”

Dean sighs. “Sammy, we haven't heard from her in ages,” he reminds him. “And besides... is she even going to care?”

“She has a right to know,” Sam points out. “If it was me I'd want to know.”

Dean lets go of his hand and pats him on the arm. “We'll figure it out,” is all he says, knowing it's not a real answer but not really wanting to think about it in too much depth either. It's too soon, it's still too _raw_ , and while he may not be able to let it out the way Sam's forced into doing, that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt any less. Maybe it's worse this way, feeling it but having to hold it in so that it feels like there are tiny slivers of razor-sharp glass embedded in his insides, in the lining of his organs, digging deeper with every breath. Maybe it would be better to just let it out like Sam, but he knows he can't do that either. _Someone_ has to have their shit together, and it can't be Sam. Fucking curses.

He's jolted out of his thoughts when Sam yawns, blinking sleepily, and Dean remembers that Sam was up in the war room when he woke. He wonders again how long Sam's been awake for. Instead of asking, though, he just smiles at his brother and pats his shoulder. “Get some sleep, Sammy,” is all he says. “We've still got a lot of time before we get there. Get some rest.”

Sam nods. “Yeah,” he says, leaning against the window and trying to get comfortable. Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye, until finally grabbing his jacket at the bicep and tugging him closer so that his head rests on Dean's shoulders.

“Not a word,” he says when Sam opens his mouth to talk.

Sam huffs. “I was gonna say thank you,” he grumbles, then yawns again, closing his eyes. He shifts some more before settling comfortably, and is out like a light within minutes.

 

It's evening when Sam begins shifting restlessly in his sleep, his face going from relaxed to tense and uneasy. Dean, too busy driving and humming along to Guns N' Roses, doesn't notice, not until Sam begins crying out in his sleep.

“Hey,” Dean says as he pulls over, shaking Sam with his free hand and speaking loudly. “Hey, c'mon, Sammy, it's a dream. C'mon, wake up.”

Sam stirs but doesn't wake, twisting around in his place, curling up and making himself smaller. Seeing it gives Dean a sick taste in his mouth, but he pushes it to the back of his mind and shakes Sam harder. “Come on, Sam, wake up. It's just a dream.”

Sam comes to with a shout and wild gasp, breathing hard as his eyes fly open and he takes a moment to orient himself and register his surroundings. “Dean,” he says the minute he realizes where he is.

“Just a nightmare,” Dean tells him, tone soft and placating. “You're all right, Sammy.” To further emphasize his point he squeezes Sam's fingers.

Sam nods. “Okay,” he says, still breathing a bit too fast. “It seemed very real,” he tells Dean a moment later. “I dreamed I was back in the Cage.”

It's Dean's turn to shift uneasily. Neither of them like to talk about their time in Hell. The topic is steered far away from when it comes up in conversation, and any bad dreams pertaining to it are kept under wraps and dealt with in their individual manner of choosing – alcohol for Dean and copious amounts of physical exertion and/or research for Sam. The only exception to this rule has been Sam's only other Cage dream, and that's a night that Dean would gladly erase from his memories, if only so he doesn’t have to hear Sam screaming like that ever again.

“Well, you're not,” he finally tells Sam. “That was a long time ago, Sammy.”

Sam laughs mirthlessly. “A couple of years doesn't seem that long when you've spent thousands of years being flayed alive,” he points out.

To his credit Dean doesn't flinch, but the sick taste in his mouth is back. He's never asked about Sam's experiences in the Cage – what with that entire thing about neither of them wanting to talk about it – but he's always known it made his years look like a vacation. He doesn't ever _want_ to know, God, what could've happened in there to make Sam the way he is–

“It's all right,” he repeats, trying to reassure himself as much as Sam, reaching out and keeping his hand on Sam's shoulder, centering both of them. It's not nearly enough and it can’t ever be if he wants to _really_ help Sam, but it's all he has.

Sam bites his lower lip and leans in, his head back on Dean's shoulder. He's entirely silent, and when Dean feels hot tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, he knows why. Instead of commenting he just moves his arm so that it's around Sam, and wordlessly rubs small circles into his skin, over his shirt. Eventually the tears stop, but Sam doesn't go back to sleep. He doesn't move, though, and neither does Dean.

“It's all right,” Dean says one more time, Sam's head heavy on his shoulder. It's not enough but it's all they've got.

## THEN

“Should we split up?” Sam questioned. They were standing in front of the Dunne residence, a few hours later. It was quiet and dark, the moon shining bright in the sky. The last of the lights on the street had just gone out.

“Yeah, we'll cover more ground that way,” Dean said. “I'll take Dunne, you take the other one.”

Sam nodded and turned to leave... and almost walked right into Crowley. “Careful there, Moose,” Crowley said with his customary grin.

“What do you want?” Sam asked with a resigned sigh. Crowley turning up randomly wasn’t even a surprise anymore – it just _happened_ , like bad hair days and running out of gas in the middle of nowhere surrounded by cornfields. Not a pleasant occurrence, but one that was more or less inevitable. Just part of their lives now.

“Your help,” Crowley replied. “Hello, Squirrel,” he greeted Dean, who nodded back at him, looking irritated at the nickname but thankfully not choosing to quarrel about it now.

“With what?” he asked, a tad more aggressive than was normal.

“Rowena,” Crowley told them, saying the name like it gave him a bad taste in his mouth. “She's going around wreaking havoc. This case you're on? That's her.”

“ _She's_ doing this?” Sam asked incredulously. “Why? Isn't this a bit below her pay grade?”

“She wants your attention,” Crowley told them sullenly. “She's been insufferable about it ever since she found out you're the Men of Letters.”

“Well, she's got it,” Dean muttered. “So, all those dead husbands and crying women... that's Rowena?”

Crowley nodded. “Just like Mother,” he said, sounding disgusted. “She's killed the men for being unfaithful, and now she's punishing the women for driving their husbands away. Making them feel the deaths more.”

“Hexbags?” Sam asked.

“Yeah. You wanna get rid of the curse, you destroy the hexbags.”

“Well, that's simple then,” began Dean, but Crowley cut him off.

“With holy oil,” he finished.

“Holy oil, why?” questioned Sam.

“She's a powerful witch, so simply burning the hexbags won't do a thing. And she's got to make sure I can't come along and ruin her handiwork,” Crowley explained. “Not a lot of folks have access to holy oil. You two, on the other hand, do. So get to it.”

“Okay, but how do we stop her?” Dean asked. “No point in getting rid of the hexbags if she can just make more.”

“Leave her to me,” Crowley told him. “Just deal with this.”

Before either of them could say a word more, he had disappeared. “Bastard,” complained Dean. “He didn't even tell us where she put the frigging hexbags.”

Sam sighed, his breath condensing in front of his face. “We've got enough oil in the trunk for the two hexbags,” he told Dean. “After that, we're going to have to find a way to stop her before she plants anymore.”

“What a bitch,” grumbled Dean as he opened the trunk of the Impala and brought up the false bottom. “Makes me feel bad for Crowley. I have no idea how he survived her.”

Sam snorted. “Makes me grateful that even though you're pretty bad, you'll never be as irritating as her.”

“Oh, blow me,” Dean retorted, shoving Sam with his free hand, the other holding the jug of holy oil. Sam just grinned wider as he took the jug and poured half of it into a plastic water bottle.

It really wasn't a lot. They were going to have to be very careful not to waste any. They could always ask Castiel for more... if only Castiel would pick up the phone or answer their prayers. They hadn't seen him in weeks. Probably he was off doing angel stuff, whatever that happened to be at the current point in time. It was always something new with the angels, and the Winchesters had better things to do than keep track. Castiel had it all handled anyway.

“All right, I'll see you in a bit,” Dean said when Sam was done. “Meet me at the motel. And Sam?” he added. “Be careful.”

Sam nodded seriously. “Yeah, you too,” he replied. “Listen – if she's here... don't kill her, okay?” His gaze dropped to the edge of the Mark just visible, peeking out from under Dean's rolled-up sleeve. “Crowley said he would deal with her.”

“Yeah, I know, Sammy,” Dean said. “Don't worry about me.”

They both set off, Dean towards the Dunne residence and Sam towards the Hill place. The victims didn't live far from each other – just another small town thing – so Sam didn't have to jog for long before he arrived. Picking the lock was a matter of a few seconds, and he crept in silently, gun at the ready just in case.

Mrs. Hill was off visiting her mother, so the house was empty. The Sheriff had called to tell him that in the evening, and asked if Sam had any more questions. Apparently the poor woman was too distraught to live on her own for the time being. As for Mrs. Dunne, she was staying with her son and his wife.

Good thing, too. Someone who cried that much at the slightest mention of their deceased husband – which, okay, understandable, but like Dean said, that was a _lot_ of tears from both women – shouldn't be left alone. Plus it gave them the opportunity to look through the houses.

The living-room was devoid of any hexbags, so Sam tried the kitchen. Nothing. It took him fifteen minutes to look through the first floor, and then he advanced to the second. The guest bedroom and bathroom were okay, and so were the old kids' rooms. That left just Mrs. Hill's room.

The door was ajar, Sam noted as he got closer to it. Gun pointed in front of him with one hand, he pushed it open, rapidly looking through the room for any threat. Nothing materialized though, and he relaxed marginally.

Something was off, though. It didn't _smell_ right in here. Sam knew this odor, unfortunately – stale meat and blood, mixed with various bodily fluids, and his breath caught in his throat. Mrs. Hill was with her mother, right? _Right?_

He made his way towards the smell, gun at the ready. It seemed to be coming from the closet, and sure enough when he opened it Mrs. Hill's disemboweled corpse fell out, falling at his feet with a sick muffled _thud_. Her eyes were open and unseeing, horror-wide and bloodshot. Sam knelt down and put two fingers to her skin where it wasn't caked with blood. It was warm enough for him to be able to tell that she'd died not too long ago. Someone had paid her a visit between the time after Sam and Dean had talked to her, and now.

Sam wondered if there was any point in finding the hexbag now. Mrs. Hill was already dead. Still, the house would be sold and he didn't want to come back here at some point in the future and find out that the hexbag was causing trouble for the new occupants. Sighing silently to himself, he straightened and resumed his search.

He found it in Mrs. Hill's bottom-most dresser drawer, nestled between her lingerie. The garments looked like they hadn’t been used in a long time, and Sam was reminded once more that her sex life had been unsatisfactory. Made sense that she wouldn't have spotted the hexbag, then, since she would have had no reason or wish to open that drawer.

A sudden thought occurred to him just as he set the hexbag aflame, and immediately he got his cell phone out of his pocket and to his ear. “Dean,” he said the second Dean picked up. “Dean, she's dead. Mrs. Hill.”

“So is Mrs. Dunne,” Dean told him sombrely. “Did you find the hexbag?”

“Yeah, dealt with it,” Sam replied. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean, I think it's a trap,” Sam said. “I think Rowena _wanted_ us to come. Crowley said she wanted our attention. This is her way of getting it.”

There is a pause as Dean considers this. “Fuck,” he whispers finally, summing up their feelings on the situation in one word. “Sam, get out of there, okay? Meet me back at the motel. _Hurry_.”

“Okay, but you too,” Sam said quickly. “If she finds you, Dean–”

“I won't kill her,” Dean finished, sounding annoyed. “I heard you the first time, Sam.” He hung up without so much as a “see you soon.”

Sam glared at the phone for a moment before pocketing it and making his way downstairs, gun still held out ready in front of him. He'd just gotten to the living-room when the lights flickered on, and he found himself standing face to face with Rowena.

“Sam Winchester,” she said, and she sounded positively delightful.

“What do you want?” Sam snapped, pointing the gun at her face. “Why did you kill her?”

“Why, to get your attention, of course!” Rowena said, smiling gleefully at him. “And it worked, didn't it?”

Sam cocked the gun.

“Oh, do get rid of that nasty thing,” Rowena said, dismissively snapping her fingers. The gun flew out of Sam's hands. With a flick of her wrist she sent him hurtling through the air, landing hard against the wall and having the breath knocked out of him. He tried to get up and found he couldn't move – she had him immobilized.

“What do you want?” he repeated, aware that his anger and irritation was leaking into his tone. He didn't care.

“I want to make a deal,” she replied, walking closer to him and leaning against a couch, looking down at him as she talked. “It has come to my attention that you've got a great deal of witchy knowledge locked away in that bunker of yours. And that you've got the Book of the Damned. I want to buy them from you.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, glaring at her. “What are you going to pay me with?”

She smiled wider, her expression turning smug, like she knew he wouldn't be able to resist. “I can remove the Mark from your brother's arm.”

“Bullshit,” was Sam's immediate response, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

“Have some faith,” she said, clicking her tongue. “The Mark is just a curse, Sam. And you know I'm the only one who can read the Book and get rid of it properly.”

Sam wasn't sure if he should believe her or not. On one hand, she _was_ an extremely powerful witch and he wouldn't have put it past her to have tracked down the Stynes and acquired the information required for the cure just so she could barter with it. On the other hand – powerful, _evil_ witch. He also wouldn't have put it past her to double-cross him, kill him and Dean both and use the Book and the knowledge in the bunker to try and take over the world or something.

Well, as Bobby was so fond of eloquently stating, _balls_.

“How do I know you're not lying to me?” he asked, looking up at her smug face and wishing he could break it.

“You've just got to take my word for it,” she sang happily. “What have you got to lose? Oh, wait.” She giggled at her own joke, and the sound made his stomach turn.

It was no secret that he'd give up the world for Dean. They both knew it. Every monster out there that had heard of them knew it. Rowena took this fact and played it to her advantage, and now here they were, Sam pinned to the floor and Rowena towering over him, smiling, waiting for him to say something.

“Well?” she prompted.

“I'm not believing it till I see the cure,” Sam told her, hoping to find a middle ground and hold it. “Cure him, and you can have the bunker.” He hoped she had no way of finding out when a person lied to her – Sam had no intention of giving up his home to the bitch.

“Do you think I'm an idiot?” she asked rhetorically. “Sam, dear, I'm hundreds of years old. To me you're but a wee lad. Don't try to play me.” There was an undercurrent of cold fury in her tone now.

“I'm just going along with your deal,” Sam pointed out, ignoring how his pulse picked up at the detection of his lie, and hoping that if he kept bullshitting she would believe him. “Let me up. Show me the cure. If it works, you can have your whatever. If not, I will not hesitate to put a blade in your face.”

“You don't get to call the shots,” she said, but she flicked her wrist and the invisible weight on his body lifted, allowing him to stand and use his height to tower over _her_ instead.

“Neither do you,” he told her, voice low and dangerous. “If anything happens to my brother, Rowena, I will _end_ you.”

“It won't come to that,” she said, looking affronted that he even dared to doubt her skills. “Meet me at the cemetery on the full moon, a week from now.”

He snorted. “Really going for the dramatic effect, aren't you.”

She sniffed haughtily. “I don't have to explain myself to the likes of you,” was her testy answer, and then she was gone.

 

“Where were you?” asked Dean when Sam arrived at the motel, half an hour later.

“Got held up,” Sam answered vaguely, heading for the shower. He _really_ needed to pee.

“By?” Dean questioned, raising an eyebrow. He'd already showered, and now was sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. Sam deliberately didn't look at him, aiming for the bathroom door.

He'd almost made it when Dean made a sound of irritation and asked forcefully, “Sam, what or who held you up?”

The look on his face said quiet clearly that he was not going to let go of it until he had an answer. It was annoyance mixed in with concern but not a small amount of fondness, and God but that look was so familiar it hurt to see. Why did Dean always have that look on him when it came to Sam?

Sam sighed. “Rowena,” he said. “She came at me. Wanted to, uh, make a _deal_.” He said the last word with a certain amount of sarcasm.

Dean blinked at him. “Deal? What kind of deal?” he asked.

Sam shifted from one foot to the other, his bladder feeling fit to burst. “Dude, let me just pee and shower and I'll tell you, okay? Gimme ten minutes.” To emphasize his point he raised his arms so Dean could see the sweat spots on his shirt.

Dean did, and he grimaced. “Fine, just hurry up,” he said, reaching for his phone to keep himself occupied in the meanwhile.

Now that the adrenaline rush had worn off, Sam could feel his injuries plainly. He wasn't hurt much except from what he'd gotten when Rowena threw him around, but patches of skin still felt sore and some were already showing the discoloration typical of bruises. He sighed to himself. He'd had worse, but honestly this was getting _so old_.

Dean had managed to use up all the hot water, as per usual, but this time Sam felt that he honestly didn't have the energy to complain. Besides, cold water was nice too, especially after sweating so much. It felt refreshing, and he let it wash over his skin as he closed his eyes and tried to get his tense, wound up muscles to relax.

He got out of the shower fifteen minutes after he'd gotten in, and wrapped a towel around his waist after using it to dry out his hair as much as he could. Dean was still sprawled on his bed when Sam exited the bathroom, playing what looked suspiciously like–

“Dude, is that _Candy Crush_?” Sam asked incredulously, pausing in his walk to his bag.

“It passes the time,” was Dean's defensive reply. Sam just chuckled at him and pulled on his boxers before tossing the towel to the side and hunting for something comfortable to sleep in.

“Dude, you look like shit,” Dean said a moment later, and Sam looked up to find his brother watching him closely. “Did she hurt you?”

“Just tossed me about a bit,” Sam answered nonchalantly, locating a pair of comfortable cotton slacks and pulling them on. “Nothing we haven't had before.”

Dean nodded, but looked pissed off anyway. “When I get that bitch,” he began.

“Dean,” Sam interjected. “I'm fine, man, really. It's just a couple of bruises.” He found a nice loose T-shirt and pulled it on, before toweling off his hair some more and getting into the unoccupied bed. He sprawled out just like Dean, stretching out and feeling himself relax into the mattress and soft but warm blanket. He let out an involuntary sound of deep satisfaction that made Dean chuckle quietly, before turning so he was lying on his side and facing his brother.

“Okay,” Dean said when Sam had settled. He reached out into the space between their beds and turned off the dim lamp, so that they could only see each other silhouetted against the moonlight that came in through the net curtains on the small window. “Now tell me. What did the bitch want?”

“Like I said, she wanted to make a deal,” Sam replied, before pausing. It felt kind of hot tonight, so he kicked his blanket off his feet and slung one leg over it. Dean watched patiently, that same annoyed expression with the undertone of affection on his face.

“You settled?” he finally asked when Sam stopped moving, sounding amused.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Okay, so – she says that she can get the Mark off you. No, just hear me out,” he added when Dean opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to protest. “What she wants in return is the Book of the Damned, and the bunker.”

“Hold on,” interjected Dean. “Does she know we burned the Book?”

Sam didn't answer.

“ _Did_ we burn the Book?” Dean demanded. “Sammy, answer me!”

“I didn't, okay,” snapped Sam defensively. “I _couldn't_. I couldn't just go on and set fire to the _one thing_ that can save you, Dean, I couldn't do it.”

Dean groaned. “C'mon, Sam, you know nothing good will come from that book!” he exclaimed, sounding frustrated.

“Except for the cure to the Mark,” Sam shot back. “I don't care what it takes, Dean, I'm getting it off you, and I don't care what I have to do.”

“ _Why?”_ asked Dean loudly. “Sammy, I've told you I'm good with it–”

“For how long?” demanded Sam, cutting him off. “Dean, it's not good enough, okay, I'm sorry but you can't hold it off forever! You saw what it did to Cain, Dean, I'm not letting that happen to you! I don't give a damn how you think you'll live with it, Dean, because I have _seen_ firsthand what happens when it takes over, and I am _not_ putting us through that again!” He was breathing hard when he finished, and glaring at Dean, though there was also a plea in his eyes.

Dean sighed to himself, heart hurting like it always did when he thought back to his stint as a demon. What he'd done, to others, to _Sam..._ he wasn't sure he could ever atone. It had taken so long just for Sam to not be terrified of him anymore, for his nightmares to stop and for him to drop his guard around Dean again; and while Dean knew that this was a normal process and that Sam was slowly coming to terms with what had happened and would eventually trust him again when he felt ready, every single agonizing moment had still felt like he had set fire to their relationship with his own bare hands, like he might never get his brother back even though he knew Sam would never walk away from him.

And to go through all of it again would be unbearable. Sam wouldn't be able to take it, and neither would Dean. It would _destroy_ them, ruin everything they shared... and that was if Dean didn't kill Sam first.

“All right,” he finally conceded. “Okay, Sammy. I hear you.”

Sam exhaled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed. “I get it, okay? I do. But hey, Rowena wanting the Book I get. Why does she want the bunker?”

Sam looked relieved as he explained, “Apparently there's some knowledge on witchcraft stored in there that she's really interested in. So she wants to meet up next week in the cemetery.”

“Sammy, it's a trap,” Dean said immediately. “I'm calling it now, man, it's a trap and she's gonna fuck us up.”

“We've walked into traps before and survived,” Sam pointed out. “Besides, she won't do anything. She knows that she needs us to get her into the bunker, which we won't do if she can't get the Mark off.”

“I don't have a good feeling about this,” Dean declared. “Besides, I thought we decided I could live with the Mark. You know, in case it doesn't work.”

“ _I_ didn't decide that, _you_ did,” Sam reminded him, looking annoyed at the same old argument. “And why, though? We have a chance at a cure. Look, just go with me on this. If it works, awesome. If it doesn't, we haven't lost anything. Either way, we're ganking her. She doesn't get to the bunker.”

“Powerful, centuries-old witch,” was Dean's short reply to that. “You think she won't anticipate that?”

“Of course she will,” Sam said. “But look, we've got Cas, and even Crowley will work with us if it means getting rid of Rowena. We have an advantage.”

“I don't know, Sammy,” Dean said after a pause, during which he considered it all. “What if it goes sideways and I become a demon again?”

“Then I'll bring you back again,” was Sam's determined reply, jaw set. “This is a really good chance, Dean, even if it's risky. Let's not waste the opportunity.”

Dean still wasn't convinced, and it must have shown on his face. Sam sighed, and reached out across the space between the beds so that his fingers were lightly touching the back of Dean's hand. “I hate seeing you like this,” he said quietly. “And I don't want you to become something you're not. Let me save you, Dean. Let me help. You can't carry your burdens alone. You know I'm right here for anything you want.”

Dean didn't make a move to reciprocate Sam's gesture, but he didn't move his hand away either. “Sam,” he said, voice low as well. “Look, I appreciate it, man. Really. But I don't want to get my hopes up and have them come crashing down. Worse than that, I don't want that to happen to you. I know you're trying, man, but if nothing comes of it...”

“I'll find something else,” Sam finished, sounding determined again.

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Dean sighed, but then he turned his hand so that it was covering Sam's. “Fine, I'll do it,” he gave in. “But, Sam, if it doesn't work–”

“It will,” Sam said stubbornly, his tone holding a challenge, but he was smiling at Dean. “Thank you,” he whispered a minute or so later, withdrawing his hand and resting his arm on his own bed.

“Don't be dumb,” Dean retorted with a snort, voice full of fond exasperation.

## NOW

They arrive in town at the crack of dawn. Dean's bone-tired, and he can't stop imagining himself in a motel bed, wrapped up in a blanket with no one disturbing him until he's had his fill of sleep. Sam's awake as well, and looks just as tired. He's staring silently out of the window, watching the shrubs go by. Dean glances over at him surreptitiously once or twice, and tries to determine how best to deal with their situation.

“I'm not gonna burst into tears and sob to my heart's content, you know,” Sam says wryly when he catches Dean looking for the fourth time. “Really, Dean. I'm fine.”

“Never said you're not,” Dean shrugs off nonchalantly. “Just concerned, man.”

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Sam assures him. “I do. And I know nothing I say will stop you from worrying, but I'm not kidding, man. I'm okay.”

“Whatever you say, Sammy,” Dean replies, and turns back to the road.

They stumble into their motel room half an hour later. Dean kicks off his shoes and collapses on the bed, nuzzling the pillow and letting out noises of satisfaction that sound almost orgasmic.

An abrupt burst of laughter makes him stop, and he looks up to see Sam standing by his own bed, outright _laughing_ at him, and it's the most wonderful sound he's heard in a long, long time. It's such a 180 turn from his previous perpetually tired, sad demeanor that it catches Dean by surprise, and he finds himself staring unabashedly. Sam's cheeks and the tip of his nose are red, his entire face a shade of pink that Dean's not seen in such a long time that it almost feels like a punch to the gut. There are actual tears in his eyes, he is laughing loudly and openly, and while it's a bit of an overreaction to Dean's antics, it's still just so _wonderful_ to hear.

It occurs to Dean that the curse extends to positive feelings as well. Makes sense. Sam hasn't had a single moment of happiness – or whatever comes close enough – for the past few weeks, but something about Dean groping his pillow must have set him off. Well, Dean's glad, even if all the laughter is at his expense. At least it's a good change from the tears and nightmares.

And – at the risk of sounding corny as all hell – Sam's laugh is such a beautiful sound.

“Okay, okay,” he grins at Sam, unable to help the smile that spreads on his face. “You've had your fill, man.”

“Oh man, you were like, rubbing your face all over the pillow!” laughs Sam, tears spilling over and going down his cheeks. “I should've made a video!”

“Nice, Sam, laugh at the man who drove all night,” accuses Dean mock-seriously. “I thought you cared more about my comfort and well-being.”

Sam just laughs harder, and Dean can't help it; he begins laughing too.

They only stop when they're both out of breath, faces red and splotchy, cheeks wet from tears of mirth. Sam takes off his own shoes and socks and finally gets into his bed, his grin transforming into a small smile. “That felt nice,” he says.

“It did,” Dean agrees. “Even though you decided to be a little bitch and laugh at _me_ instead of literally anything else. I'm hurt, Sammy.” He's pulling Sam's leg and they both know it.

Sam huffs, going along with it. “I laugh at whatever I find funny,” he tells Dean. “Though I gotta admit, I had no idea I'd end up laughing this much.”

“Yeah, I didn't think that happy things were included,” Dean says. “But it's a good thing, eh, Sammy? Any time you feel down I'll just tickle you or something.”

Tickling doesn't induce any strong emotion (other than annoyance, perhaps) and so won't fall into the curse parameters, but Sam appreciates the effort anyway. He smiles again at Dean. They can hear birds chirping outside, and the sun's up. There's sunlight streaming through the vaguely grimy window. “We have a couple hours before we have to get up,” Sam says, and yawns. “Later, Dean.”

“Mm, yeah. I'll wake you up,” Dean says, and sets an alarm on his phone before closing his eyes, even though he knows he's not going to be able to sleep. At least Sam's already dozed off, though, so there's a small blessing right there.

He turns on his side and watches as Sam's face goes slack, body relaxing as he falls deeper into much-needed sleep. The light mood of earlier seems to have worked wonders – Sam's face is content in a way Dean hasn't seen lately. The last thing he sees before he falls asleep is the small smile on Sam's lips.

 

They wake up a little later than they're supposed to, but neither of them can find it within themselves to be displeased about that. Despite only having slept three or so hours, Dean feels rested and content, and Sam's demeanor tells him his brother feels the same.

They take turns showering and dress in comfortable silence, going through the practiced motions with the sort of blind ease you only had if you'd been doing something forever. Dean still watches Sam out of the corner of his eyes, though. And if Sam does the same he doesn't see it, but he's got a feeling Sam's watching him too.

“You know,” he says twenty minutes later, sitting across from Sam at the corner booth in a no-name diner, “you don't have to keep an eye on me all the time.”

Sam snorts. “And you're not doing the same?”

“Well, you've got a curse on you,” Dean points out. “I'm worried about you.”

“And you're borderline drunk 24/7,” retorts Sam. “I'm worried too.”

“I'm not drunk right now,” Dean counters.

“You will be before the day's out,” Sam predicts.

“And you'll have cried at least once.”

“I can't help that. The drinking, though – that you _can_ control, Dean.”

“I _am_ controlling it, Sammy,” Dean assures him. “I'm okay, man. I've got it.”

“No you haven't,” sighs Sam, and great, the corners of his mouth are pulling down. “You're gonna drink yourself to liver cirrhosis. I just... you know I'm right here, Dean. I wish you'd talk to me instead of trying to drink your problems away.”

There is a lump in Dean's throat. Sam's right, of course he is. It's just that– “Sam, I can't do that to you. You've got enough on your plate.”

“And so do you,” Sam points out, still looking sad as hell. “Dean, we don't have to do this alone. Any of it. I'm sick of us just being in our corners and dealing with all of it by ourselves. I don't wanna do that anymore. I wanna help you.”

“Sam, how can you help me when you start crying a minute into any conversation we have?” questions Dean softly. “Don't get me wrong, man, I know you mean well, but c'mon, how's this supposed to work, with the way you are now?”

“I'm getting better,” argues Sam, though his tone is just as soft. “You know I am. I'll be back to normal soon.”

“I know you are, Sammy. I'm just sayin' – until that happens, I don't want to dump more on you than you can take.”

“You're not,” Sam assures him, a hint of a plea in his voice. “Dean, I can handle it. So what if I'm not a hundred percent okay? Are _you_? We're both messed up, man, the least we can do is share the burden, make it easier to deal with.”

“Sammy–”

“Look, I'm not asking you to completely stop drinking. I'm just saying, maybe ease up on it? It's not gonna help you, Dean. You're just gonna bury it all and pretend nothing ever happened and then, sooner or later, you're gonna blow up, and it'll be me in the blast zone.” Sam sounds imploring, beseeching eyes fixed on Dean.

Dean sighs. Again, Sam's right. This has happened way too many times in the past, and he's not going to deny it's becoming a pattern. Something happens, he represses, he drinks, he explodes and every time, Sam is the one who has to deal with it. And currently, Sam's in no condition to do that. It has to stop.

“You're not gonna let this go until I agree, are you?” he asks with a small, wry smile.

Sam returns it. “Damn straight I'm not.”

“All right,” Dean says, giving in, noting the way Sam's eyes light up with hope. “I'll try my best, Sammy, but I'm not gonna promise that nothing will happen anyway, okay?”

Sam nods. “No, yeah, I get it,” he says, sounding relieved.

The waitress arrives with their breakfast, and immediately both of them dig in. The air between them seems different now, less charged. And even though Dean hadn't felt it before, it feels like a load has just slid off his shoulders, leaving him lighter, a little bit less tense.

For the first time it feels like maybe, if they just try hard enough and stick together like they always have... they'll survive.

## THEN

Dean parked the Impala two blocks away from the cemetery and instead of getting out, turned to Sam. “Sammy, listen to me.”

Sam watched him, waiting for him to go on, one hand already on the door handle.

“Sam, if this doesn't work out, if she can't get the Mark off me...” Dean began. “I want you to understand that it's not on you, okay? I've told you that I can live with it. Worst comes to worst, I _can't_ live with it and I'll quietly get Cas or someone to gank me, okay? I don't want to hurt you again,” he added when Sam opened his mouth to protest. “Or anyone else. Sam, I'm not gonna let myself become a monster again.”

Sam grit his teeth, his jaw muscles working. “It'll work, Dean,” he said shortly, tone determined.

“But if it doesn't,” pressed Dean, intent on making his point before they got out of the car. “If it doesn't, Sam, don't blame yourself.”

Sam didn't answer, just kept glaring at Dean, jaw still set in that determined, stubborn manner of his. Dean sighed. “Sam, we're not getting out of this car until I hear from you.”

“Dean–”

“ _Sam_. I've been down that road, man. We both have. We both know it leads to nowhere good.” Dean paused, then went on, “I'm just sayin', some things you can't cure, all right?”

“This is not one of those things,” Sam promised, and scrambled out of the car before Dean could say anything further. Rolling his eyes and sighing in exasperation, Dean followed, locking down the car and making his way to the trunk so they could get their stuff.

The night was clear, not a cloud to be seen, the full moon shining down upon them. Dean found himself feeling a sudden burst of nostalgia, back when all they had to worry about was werewolves and vampires and angry spirits. What wouldn't he give to go back to that time, to erase the last five or so years of his life.

“Let's do this,” Sam said, voice low and dangerous, his entire body wound tight like a coiled steel wire just waiting to snap. Dean nodded at him, stowing an angel blade inside his coat and setting off towards the cemetery at a jog, Sam by his side like he always was.

They were early, as evidenced by the glow-in-the-dark numbers on Dean's watch that read a quarter to midnight. Rowena had just said cemetery, hadn't specified a location within it, but Sam had done his research and they headed towards the tomb of Margot French, who according to legend had been a powerful witch who'd been burned at the stake during the Salem witch trials. Rowena's hero, apparently, Dean thought with a snort.

Neither Cas nor Crowley was there yet, so Sam and Dean decided to wait. They stood around in the cool night air, Sam pacing and Dean fidgeting, waiting for Rowena to roll in at midnight with what would no doubt be a very dramatic entrance. Crowley must have gotten his flair for drama from _somewhere_ , even if he thankfully didn't inherit any of her, er, more pleasant qualities.

How bad was someone when they made the King of Hell look like a stand-up citizen, really.

Dean was patting his jacket to make sure, for the thousandth time, that all relevant weapons were on him, when Sam said, voice small and almost inaudible, “I can't lose you again.”

He stared, not sure if he'd even heard it or not. “Sam?” he ventured cautiously.

“I can't lose you again,” Sam repeated, his sorrow plain on his face and in his voice. “Dean, I... I couldn't save you from Hell. I couldn't save you from Purgatory. I just... I don't want to fail you again.”

“Sam, you didn't fail me,” Dean replied, voice just as soft, crossing the few feet to where Sam was standing. “I thought we were over this, kiddo.” He reached out slightly so that the tips of his fingers were just touching the back of Sam's hand. “Look, whatever happens tonight, I'm proud of you, okay? And I appreciate what you've done for me, I really do. I mean, Jesus, Sam, how do I even begin to tell you?” He smiled, hoping his face could convey what he couldn't articulate.

For a moment or so Sam was completely still, watching Dean with just a hint of tears standing in his eyes. Then he reached out and closed the gap between their hands, intertwining their fingers tightly. He didn't say a word, but he didn't need to. It was all there in the desperate way he clutched at his big brother's hand, the way they were standing side by side, pressed together from shoulder to knee.

The moment was disrupted by a flutter of wings, and they released each other's hands just as Cas appeared, looking even more solemn than usual. “Hello,” he greeted.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam replied, returning the greeting with a small smile. “Thanks for coming. I know you were busy.”

“Yeah, 'ppreciate it,” Dean added.

Castiel nodded at both of them. “Where's Crowley?” he asked.

“Should be here any moment,” Sam said.

“How do you know we can trust him?” inquired Castiel. “He's the King of Hell, and she's his mother.”

“He hates her,” Sam assured Cas. “He volunteered to help, you know.”

Castiel still looks suspicious. “All the same, be careful,” he advised.

“Aw, I'm touched, I really am,” came a snarky British voice, and all three of them turned to see Crowley stroll out from behind a headstone. “Glad to see we're all so _trusting_.”

Castiel just glared at Crowley, who sneered back. “What's the matter, Wings? Got a bee in your bonnet?”

“Children, please,” sighed Dean in exasperation. “Get your shit together. You two can go at each with swords later for all I give a crap, but let's do it after we've ganked this bitch.”

“Is that any way to talk about a lady?” clucked a feminine voice with a Scottish lilt, and Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes. What was it with these two and their dramatic entrances? At least she hadn't broken out a wind and some thunder.

“Rowena,” Sam bit out, his entire body tensing up, an angel blade held at the ready.

“Do put that away, lad,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him. She looked immaculate as always, dressed in a navy blue gown and red hair styled into a French twist. “We're here to do business, aren't we? Hello, Fergus.”

“Mother,” he said, spitting the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. That was some seriously bad blood right there, thought Dean to himself. The name Fergus, which never usually failed to crack him up, didn't even make him want to smile right now, what with the particular way Rowena said it, like he was a bug she wanted to squash.

“You must be Castiel,” Rowena said, smiling toothily at the angel, who just glared back in his customary manner. “Right, well,” she said when it was clear no reply was forthcoming, “let's get down to it, shall we, boys?” She held out her hand. “Sam, dear, the map and key to your bunker, please.”

“You don't get anything until you get the Mark off Dean,” Sam reminded her, tone steel-cold.

“I'm not doing a single thing until I know you have the map and key,” she countered.

Sam only took a few seconds to consider, before pulling his jacket open to show her the map and key kept safely in his inside pocket. “I've done my part of the deal,” he said. “Now do yours.”

“Lose the blades first,” she said, looking disdainfully at the blades all four were holding. “Really, Fergus, I know you don't like me but I didn't expect you to pull a blade on your own mother.”

Crowley didn't bother replying, which Dean knew was unusual for the mouthy demon. He just looked irritated and angry, like he just wanted it all to be over with, and Dean knew how he felt. Whether it worked or not, he just wanted it to be over so he could go home.

“The blades stay,” Sam said.

“That puts you at a bit of an unfair advantage, doesn't it?” pointed out Rowena. “I'm outnumbered and unarmed.”

Dean snorted. “You're a _witch_. You don't need weapons or a numbers advantage.”

“Against humans, no. Against an angel and a demon?” She clicked her tongue, and then smiled sweetly at the four of them.  “Not very comfortable here, dearie.”

“Okay,” shrugged Dean. “We'll all go home, then. C'mon, Sammy.” He ignored Sam's indignant expression. “We'll keep the Book and the bunker.”

“Wait!” Rowena called when Dean had taken a few steps.

He turned. “The way I see it, lady,” he said, “you need us more than we need you. I can live like this. I got no problems in turnin' my back and never coming back here. It's you who wanted the deal. You've got to play by our terms here.”

She looked torn as she considered his words, even though she knew he was right. He knew it too, and he couldn't help the smug smile on his face as they all waited for her answer. Sam looked relieved that Dean wasn't backing out, and also like he was trying to suppress a smile at Rowena's childishly pouty expression.

“Fine,” she spat in the end. “But if I see a single blade pointed my way, I _will_ kill you.”

“Love to see you try,” muttered Dean, but didn't say anything more. He looked up at Sam, who was handing Rowena the Book, and offered his most reassuring smile. “All right,” he said, as Rowena began setting up her stuff. “Time to get this party started.”

“Dean,” Sam started to say, taking a step forward. Outwardly he was calm and composed, but Dean knew that he felt vulnerable and scared inside, worried that it wouldn't work, valiantly trying to hide it. Still, he knew Sam better than anyone else on the planet, knew him in every way that it was possible to know him, and he knew how Sam felt. God knows he'd felt the same way countless times himself.

He smiled wider at Sam. “Remember what I told you,” he said, knowing he didn't need to say anything more, ignoring the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the deja-vu, trying not to think about how he'd said the same words to Sam before he went to Hell.

“Best of luck, Dean,” Castiel said, nodding at him, trying to look assuring but just coming off like he was constipated. Still, Dean appreciated the thought.

“I've got to say, sooner that Mark's off your arm, the happier I'll be,” Crowley added, which basically translated to “I am actually concerned about you but will rather stab myself in the nuts with an angel blade than say that out loud”.

Dean grinned. “Aw, Crowley, I didn't know you cared.”

“Bugger off,” retorted Crowley, but it lacked his usual gusto.

“All right, I'm done,” Rowena called, and Dean looked over to see that she'd set up a Devil's trap – in case he turned into a demon again, his mind helpfully supplied – and a card table inside it that held all manner of herbs and candles and other witchy materials. She was holding the Book of the Damned open somewhere in the middle, minuscule words printed on the page looking like bird footprints.

Despite himself, he swallowed. This was it, then.

There was a feather-light touch on the back of his hand and he looked up to see Sam watching him, steely determination written all over his features. “It'll work,” he said one more time, and it sounded like he was trying to assure himself as much as Dean. Not wanting to agree and thus lie, not when they had no idea if it was going to be successful, Dean just nodded at Sam, rolled his sleeve up so that the Mark was exposed, and stepped into the Devil's trap.

Rowena smiled eerily at him before turning her back and messing around with the things on the table. Dean couldn't see what she was doing, but he saw that Sam and Crowley were both watching her intently while Castiel kept an eye on him. Presently she finished mixing whatever it was into her copper bowl, before holding out a small knife in his direction. “I need your blood.”

He took it and cut a gash into his palm, holding it over the bowl and watching as his blood dripped down into it. His heart was beating rather fast, and he felt vaguely nauseous. He could almost hear the rush of his own blood in his ears, and thought that if he was this tense, then Sam must be feeling all of this times a hundred, a thousand, a million. He supposed that if he had to watch Sam go through something like this, he'd be terrified too.

The thought of Sam screaming in the panic room popped unbidden into his head, and he closed his eyes, trying to get rid of the image and the faint echo of Sam's screaming that he was sure he could never erase from his memories. Now was not the time to dwell on painful things from his past. What mattered was _now_ , with Sam standing as close as he could get without being inside the Devil's trap, watching with anxiety and hope warring to take over his face. What mattered was Sam knowing that whatever the outcome of today, Dean would never stop being his big brother. Even if – _when_ – he wasn't anymore.

That much he knew for sure. Whatever walked out of this Devil's Trap when all was said or done, it wouldn't harm one single overgrown hair on Sam's head.

He smiled reassuringly at Sam one more time – _it'll be all right, kid, no matter what happens_ – and Sam's mouth twitched slightly upward in response, even though he still looked worried. Dean closed his eyes, steeling himself. Rowena was chanting, and he knew without having to look that Sam, Crowley and Cas were all listening carefully. He heard a spark and felt a sudden burst of heat, and knew she'd lit the big red candles she'd had with her. The heat increased as she stepped closer to him, her chanting drowning out any other sound.

“This will hurt,” Rowena told him, sounding absolutely gleeful.

Dean didn't bother gracing that with an answer, instead choosing to brace himself once more for the inevitable pain.

This was it, then.

The last thing he remembered thinking about was a promise he'd made to himself a long time ago. _Nothing will hurt Sam as long as I'm there. Not even me._

## NOW

“Angry spirit,” declares Sam after an hour of sitting hunched over his computer on the small motel room table. “It's an angry spirit.”

“Please say it's the usual average Joe kind of angry spirit,” Dean replies fervently. No more Wi-Fi ghosts, _please_.

Sam huffs, amused. “It is,” he informs Dean, who looks absolutely delighted. “Let's go get rid of it, and we can leave tomorrow morning.”

Dean shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”

It's raining a little bit when they set out, and as they walk to the car Dean wonders if Sam will laugh at him for bringing up the opinion that they should invest in an umbrella. Then he thinks, _fuck it_ , Sam needs a few laughs.

“Hey, Sammy, think we should buy an umbrella?”

Sam glances over at him. “You serious?”

They're at the car now, and Dean unlocks it before getting in on the driver's side. Sam follows, reaching into the backseat for a spare towel and beginning to dry himself off.

“Yeah, I'm serious,” says Dean. “I mean, we don't want the rain to mess up that pretty hair of yours.”

Sam snorts. “Sure. My hair's the only reason you want an umbrella.”

Dean glances over as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Well, I'm just concerned, Sammy,” he says mock-seriously. “I don't want you to catch a cold or pneumonia or something.”

That does the trick, and Sam grins, lips curving up at the corners. “Okay, Dean, let's buy an umbrella,” he says, sounding amused. “What color do you think it should be?”

“I didn't think that far,” confesses Dean. They're at the cemetery now – it's a _really_ small town and everything is practically next-door to everything else. “What color do _you_ want, Sammy?”

Sam shrugs. “Dunno, any color's fine by me.”

“Let's go for something nice and cheery,” Dean decides, nudging Sam before shutting off the engine and getting out. “How about blue?” he says as they get their shotguns from the trunk.

“What kinda blue?” questions Sam, going along just as seriously, even though his voice can barely conceal his mirth.

“How 'bout turquoise or something?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Turquoise it is, then.”

“Okay, Dean.”

Dean looks over to find Sam smiling to himself as he begins to dig up the grave. _Good_ , he thinks. It's not laughter but it's something, and at this point he'll take what he can get.

 

Except he was right, he was _totally right_ , and Sam is _never_ living it down. The rain totally drenched him down to his last layer of clothing, and now he's red-nosed and sneezing, looking absolutely miserable as he sits slumped in his bed, a blanket wrapped around him and a towel on his head.

“I'm not gonna say I told you so, but.” Dean sighs. “I told you so, Sammy.”

“No, you didn't, you only said you'd buy an umbrella,” Sam argues, voice hoarse. He opens his mouth to say something more, but what comes out instead is a meek little sneeze.

Dean snorts. “Cute,” he comments, ignoring Sam's responding glare. He sits down on Sam's bed, facing him, and reaches his arm out to rest his hand on Sam's forehead. “You've got a fever,” he informs him.

Sam makes a face, and Dean is reminded of how he was sick from the trials and acting like a total child, blabbing about farting donkeys. Inadvertently he smiles to himself.

“Watcha smiling at?” asks Sam.

“Nothing,” Dean replies, but doesn't stop smiling. He hands Sam a glass of bottle and two small pills. “Swallow.”

Sam obliges, though he looks indignant at being told what to do as if he were a kid.

“Okay, now lie down,” Dean orders, and waits till Sam does as he's told, the towel slipping off his head as he does so. Dean takes it and stands, spreading the towel out over a chair. “Do you want me to sing you to sleep, or we good?” he asks teasingly, though there's a slight note of seriousness to it. If Sam does want him to sing, then by God he'll sing till his throat feels numb.

Sam makes another face at him. “We're good,” he mutters, before turning on his side and wrapping the blanket tighter around himself, curling up. Dean rolls his eyes affectionately at his brother, and throws on the motel comforter over him. “Rest up, buddy,” he says. “You'll be better in the morning.”

“Mm,” mumbles Sam, and closes his eyes.

Dean watches the rise and fall of Sam's chest as his breathing becomes slower and deeper the further he falls into what is hopefully going to be a restful slumber. He can't help but go back to when they were kids, and he would take care of Sam just the exact same way he is now, whenever Sam was sick and John wasn't around. Right up to the age of thirteen, Sam had requested Dean sing him to sleep whenever he was unwell, and Dean bitched and moaned to his heart's content but he never did turn Sam down. After that, Sam stopped asking for it, clearly thinking he was too old for it, but Dean did it anyway, and Sam never protested.

Dean still took care of him after he got back from Stanford, but he hadn't sung anymore. Sam was too old for it, too bitter, too... there was no way to put it, no way there was a single word that could encapsulate Sam's grief and anger and determination. There was a line that even Dean didn't dare cross, and he knew when Sam needed his space. So he'd never tried, not even when there were nights he could hear Sam trying to muffle tears into his pillow in the darkness. What could he say, anyway? _Sorry your girlfriend died, d'you wanna hug?_

Sam mumbles something in his sleep and wriggles a little before settling, curled up under the covers. Dean watches him, wondering where they stand now, when it comes to the singing and stuff. He has no idea how it'll be received if he does it. God knows Sam needs the comfort it'll give him, though, especially after what's happened to them in the past few weeks. Not a day has gone by without Sam in tears over something or the other, or raging enough to make the Hulk look like a puppy. It's mostly been crying, though, Sam's grief winning out over his anger. He's had only one rage episode, and it's the reason Crowley is terrified of him now.

Jesus. These past few weeks have been _hell_ , and Dean's not one to use that comparison lightly, knowing exactly what hell is like. But he does now, because it makes sense, it _does_ compare. How does one even deal with a loss like that? At least with Sam he knows that he can always bring him back, and if he can't do that then he can always see Sam again whenever he dies and goes to Heaven. They've got the small comfort of knowing that they're never going to be separated for too long, not even when they're dead. But Castiel?

Dean feels the familiar feeling of bile rising in his throat at the thought of the angel. In all the years they'd known him, they'd both thought of him as nothing short of invincible. 'Course, Dean knew the angel had his weaknesses, especially when he had been mortal, but he had always bounced back, some way or another.

Now, though? There was nothing to bounce back from. There was nothing, _period_. Dean couldn't even begin to fathom that concept, that there was a death from which there was no coming back, and nothing to look forward to.

The end. Literally.

Sam's been coping in his own way, which entails being quietly miserable until he can't hold it back any longer. Dean knows that Sam's the type of person who'd never even consider burdening someone else with his issues, but lately he's not had a choice, and God, Dean hates curses so fucking much. Every strong emotion Sam feels is magnified a thousandfold, whether it's anger or joy or sorrow. It's just been sorrow, though, which is why Sam's earlier outburst of laughter was so welcomed. It had felt like an honest-to-God oasis in the desert that was their situation.

So when Sam feels grief, he cries instead of keeping it in. He can't help it, and Dean knows how much Sam hates having no control over his emotions. Neither of them can do anything but wait for the curse to wear off, though, so Dean just keeps an eye on Sam at all times and when he sees a sob session coming on, nips it in the bud with Sam's favorite food and movies and, if Sam needs it, physical comfort. The former two don't work as effectively as Dean would like them to, but the latter is something Sam seeks out actively, and Dean is glad. It's far easier to take care of Sam when he's being vocal about what he needs.

But Dean? Dean can't just cry his sorrow out like Sam does. Not only would it place undue stress on his already ragged brother, it just... wouldn't fix it for Dean. It wouldn't be cathartic or help him come to some kind of closure or whatever shit therapists told their patients. The only way Dean can deal with it is the same way he always does – by keeping it in and letting it fester, using copious amounts of alcohol as a balm for his wounds. He _knows_ it's not going to help in the long run, that it's just a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. He knows, dammit. He just can't do anything else. This is all he has. This is all he knows how to do.

Sam's not moving anymore, settled quietly under his blanket, his chest moving slowly up and down. His face is slack and relaxed, which means he's not dreaming, and Dean is glad. He supposes the sleeping pills he gave Sam help, because Sam hasn't been able to sleep without them ever since he got cursed. It's kind of hard to doze off when all you want to do is cry. They haven't been very effective in warding off nightmares – on any other night Sam would already have woken up with one – but it seems his body is too busy fighting off his illness to bother with anything else, and Dean is relieved.

He checks his watch, considering his options. He's pretty sure if he stays in all night he's going to lose his mind. He can't keep going over the past few weeks, can't keep ripping the scab off his wounds and hoping it would hurt less over time. He doesn't know if this will ever stop hurting, and dammit, he just wants to be numb to all of this. He doesn't want to think any more, he doesn't want to feel any more, he just needs it all to go away.

Abruptly he stands, his decision made. He scribbles down _Out for a while, be back soon_ on a piece of motel stationery and places it on the table between their beds just in case Sam wakes, and leans down to press a small kiss on his forehead. “Rest, kiddo,” he whispers fondly, bringing Sam's blanket up to his chin and turning the lamp off.

He ignores the apprehensive feeling in the pit of his stomach as he tiptoes out of the room and to the Impala. Sam's going to be fine for a couple of hours. He's sleeping like a log for the first time in days and Dean knows how exhausted he's been, so it makes sense he'll sleep through the night.

 

## THEN

Dean came to with a groan, a searing pain in his right forearm where the Mark was supposed to be. He was lying on the ground, his face pressed into the cold damp earth. He could hear murmuring coming from above him, and some sharp voices arguing, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. It felt like his ears were ringing.

He tried to raise his head, but it felt like his skull was filled with lead. “Sam,” he tried to say, but it just came out as “Saaaa-aaughh–”

Not a second later there was a familiar concerned face inches from his, and a warm hand on his face. “Dean.” It was Sam, of course it was Sam, and he was frowning. “Dean, are you all right?”

Dean groaned again. This time he was somewhat successful when he tried to move, managing to get himself up long enough to free his right arm, which was trapped under his body. “Sammy,” he got out, tongue feeling heavy and uncooperative inside his mouth. “Sammy, the Mark–”

The hand flew off his face, and not a second later it was on his arm, lifting it for a better view. Callused fingers trailed lightly over the skin just under the crook of his elbow, the touch soft, almost reverent. “Dean,” Sam said, and there was awe and relief and gratitude and a thousand more emotions mixed in his voice, feelings that made Dean feel like his heart would beat its way clean out of his chest with anticipation.

“Dean,” Sam repeated, and his voice broke on the last syllable.

Dean made an effort to move again, and this time realized his body felt lighter, like whatever had been weighing him down was gone now. He sat up with yet another groan, pressing his left hand to his head even as he looked down at his right, strangely afraid of what he was going to find.

There was nothing. His skin was clean and even, no raised ugly ridge of what had previously felt like hot, rough scar tissue. Sam's fingers were still on Dean's arm, and he took his hand away from his head to touch the space where the Mark had been. It felt warm and soft, whereas the Mark had always burned a few degrees hotter than the rest of his body. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, feeling like his heart had forgotten how to beat, and then he looked up to find Sam watching him, tears of relief streaming freely down his face.

“Guess you were right, Sammy,” he said, attempting to smile at his brother. Sam just let out a sob and threw his arms around Dean, holding on tightly like he could never bear to let go again. Dean didn't hesitate to wrap his arms back around his brother, patting him on the back, one hand on the back of his head. Sam was shaking in his arms, and Dean could feel his tears soak through his shirt. He was feeling a bit teary himself but he reigned it in, choosing instead to press his face to the side of Sam's head.

Sam didn't let go until it got too uncomfortable to remain on the ground. He stood and wiped his face with the back of his hand, smiling shakily at Dean as he did so. “Dean,” he tried to say again.

Dean stood as well, placing both hands on Sam's shoulders. “You did it, Sammy,” he whispered fiercely. “You found a way.”

Sam just laughed wetly, and it was the most beautiful sound Dean had ever heard.

They were interrupted by a delicate cough, and Dean turned to see Rowena standing there expectantly, looking a little bit worse for wear. Her hair was out of place and her clothes seemed to be smoking slightly. “I do believe I had a hand in it,” she said loftily. “So I would like my part of the deal now.”

Immediately Sam's expression changed, his features becoming cold, set in stone. Behind him, Dean could see Crowley and Castiel standing alert, their blades glinting in the moonlight. This was it, this was where everything could potentially go sideways. Still, Dean found it somewhat hard to care – the Mark was off, it was _gone_ and he felt on top of the world, like he could deal with anything now as long as he had Sam and Cas by his sides.

“The keys and the map, please, Sam,” Rowena prompted, taking a step closer to him and holding out her hand expectantly. “Now, dear. I'm rather excited and I don't like to be kept waiting.”

Sam took a step back, almost walking right into Dean. “You have the Book,” he said cautiously. “You don't need any more knowledge, Rowena.”

Her face morphed from excited to confused. “Pardon?” she said, her tone deadly quiet. “If I recall correctly, the deal was that I get to keep the Book _and_ the bunker. Are you telling me you are going to go back on it, Sam?”

“He's telling you he doesn't want to hand the world to you, gift-wrapped, for you to do with as you wish,” interjected Crowley, nodding at Castiel. Castiel stepped forward and scuffed out a line of the Devil's Trap with his boot, and both him and Crowley stepped inside, effectively trapping Rowena between them and the Winchesters, and making sure they stood between her and the temporary altar she'd set up.

“Fergus, what is this?” snarled Rowena, her face twisting into an angry mask of hatred. “I thought your people valued contracts more than that!”

“ _My_ people do,” Crowley assured her. “Them, though.” He gestured towards Sam and Dean, who were both armed with blades as well. “They don't give a shite. Especially not when it concerns scrabbling, manipulative scum like you.” Coming from Crowley that was rich, but no one chose to comment at that moment.

Rowena stared in disbelief at all four of them, before letting out a bloodcurdling scream. The ground began shaking with the force of her fury; Crowley moved forward but she slammed him away into a nearby oak, causing a considerable dent in the bark of the tree. Dean, thinking she was distracted by her son, tried to sink the blade into her but she slammed him into a tombstone, doing the same with Castiel a moment later.

Sam raised his blade, but she turned on him, the white of her eyes gone. Instead her eyes were a bright, angry scarlet, the color of freshly shed blood, and despite himself Sam felt a twinge of fear. Still, he'd faced down worse and come out on top, and so he braced himself, adjusting his grip on his blade and aiming again.

She shrieked again, the sound sending chills down his spine, and flicked her wrist. Sam's blade was torn from his grasp, and he found himself flying through the air and pinned to a tree. It felt like a full-on earthquake now, what with the way the ground was shaking, and Sam could see tombstones crack and crumble under Rowena's ire.

“ _You think you can fool me?_ ” she shrieked, paying no mind to Sam's struggling. Dean was back on his feet and he tried to shove her to the ground and break her hold on Sam, but she flicked him away without even having to turn, doing the same to Cas and Crowley a second later when they tried. To ensure she wouldn't be disturbed, she pinned them as well.

“I will make you suffer,” Rowena promised. There was a crack of thunder and out of nowhere a gale began to flow, undoing her hair and whipping it all about her face. She looked unhinged, deranged, a lunatic, and behind her Sam saw that Crowley had genuine terror on his face. Well, _shit_.

He turned his attention back to Rowena to hear her screaming in an unknown language – though Sam could hazard a guess a Gaelic – her voice barely audible over the roaring of the wind. It made Sam's eyes sting and water, each gust feeling like a thousand small icy needles stabbing his skin, turning it raw and painful. He wondered if she was trying to freeze them to death or something.

“I will _kill_ you all!” she screamed, switching back to English, “and I will start with your angel, Sam Winchester! I will make you watch as I torture them all, your brother last of all, and you will feel every single thing I do to them! You will watch the life drain out of them, and your pain will be like _nothing_ anyone has ever felt before!”

And the realization came to Sam, in a rush of nausea, that she had just cursed him. And if he wasn't wrong, it was more or less the same curse she'd used on the women, minus the torturing. Figured, didn't it, that just when Dean got rid of _his_ curse, Sam got one. Still, it was nothing compared to the Mark. They'd deal with it when they had to – right now their focus was to get out of here alive, preferably with Rowena dead.

Her ire was so focused on Sam that she didn't notice that somehow Crowley had gotten free – probably cast a spell of his own – and was creeping up behind her, his clothes whipping about in the powerful wind. She didn't notice him until he was almost on her, blade raised. She laughed, a cold, chilling sound. “Oh, Fergus, you _coward_ ,” she spat. “I know you can't do it. I _am_ your mother after all.” She made to do something to do him, Sam couldn't tell what, but before she could do so Crowley had vanished. Sam stared at the space where he'd just been, and made a vow to murder Crowley next time he saw him for daring to leave them alone with his insane mother.

“CAS, NOW!” Dean roared and Sam's head snapped in that direction, watching in growing horror as Castiel came at Rowena, his eyes glowing blue.

“CAS, _NO_!” he screamed, knowing what would happen before it did. She was too powerful, too angry, and even with his Grace back, she was more than a match for him.

Still, Castiel held his own, fending off her attacks, and Sam saw what he was doing – he was giving Dean enough time to come at Rowena from her blind spot. Sam knew from personal experience that unfocused anger was the worst obstacle when it came to strategy, so while Rowena was still furious and taking it out, they had a chance. Once she had the time to hone that rage and use it against them, they were done for.

Whatever Castiel was doing worked – Rowena's focus turned on him and Sam fell to the ground. Immediately there were hands fisted in his jacket, dragging him up, and he stood to find Dean's face next to his. “Sam!” Dean yelled.

“I'm fine!” Sam yelled back, fighting to be heard over the wind. “Crowley's gone!”

“We'll deal with that fucker later!” Dean vowed. “Let's just finish off this bitch now.”

Sam nodded, accepted the blade Dean handed him, and together they charged Rowena. She heard them coming, however, and once again Dean was sailing through the air, cursing at the peak of his lungs. Sam spared a second to make sure he was fine – with the Mark gone Dean was no longer immune to harm – and then turned back to Castiel and Rowena.

She turned to him as well, her arm raised high, and Sam saw with growing horror that her nails had mutated into sharp black talons – and they were aimed for his throat. He dodged, rolling to the side, getting to his feet and moving out of the way before she could attempt to gouge his throat out again. Behind him he could hear Dean yelling, but something Rowena had done was keeping him away – it looked like a force field, the air around it shimmering, smelling strongly of ozone. Dean couldn't get near her, and he was roaring in frustration as he tried uselessly to cut through it with his blade.

Castiel and Sam were both inside the field, though, and therefore could still try to finish Rowena before she finished them. Sam had just raised his blade once more when there was a loud, ripping sound, and the tree Sam had been pinned to earlier completely uprooted in the strong wind and hurtled through the air at breakneck speed...

...headed straight for his brother. “DEAN!” screamed Sam, trusting Cas to keep her occupied while he watched out for his big brother. “DEAN, _MOVE_!”

Dean dropped the blade and tried to jump out of the way. He was successful for the most part, but did get caught in the stomach by a wayward branch that had come off, completely knocking his breath away from him. He fell on his knees, wheezing, but he was all right, and he was out of harm's way for now at least.

Rowena screamed, and Sam turned just in time to see her charging at him with Castiel's blade, the angel crumpled on the ground. He moved out of her way and in Castiel's direction, yelling “Cas, _Cas_!”

Her momentum threw her off for a bit, and Sam used the few seconds of relief to grab Castiel and haul him to his feet. The angel was hurt, Sam saw, a cut above his eye oozing copious amounts of blood down his face, his lip split and bleeding as well. “Sam, we've got to stop her _tonight_ , we can't let her get away,” Castiel informed him, wiping at his mouth. “There's no telling what the damage she'll do if she's free.”

Sam nodded. Rowena was up again, one hand holding the blade, the other clawed, her eyes glinting murder-red, looking truly out of control. She snarled, and then several things happened at once.

Castiel raised his arm and tried to knock her away, but only succeeded in pissing her off further. Beyond the force field, Dean roared in anger, just as Crowley popped back into view, right behind Rowena, and chopped her clawed arm off with his blade in one clean slice.

She screamed in agony, bright red blood spurting out of the stump, her hand lying uselessly on the ground. Sam saw his chance and closed in, but before he could do anything she looked up, still screaming, and threw her blade in his direction, lightning-fast and true, and Sam was sure that he was going to die.

There was a blinding flash of light and for a few seconds every sound faded, before coming back in full-force. Sam was not dead, but Dean was screaming anyway, and instead of anger this time it was raw shock and horror, and it looked like he was going to tear his vocal cords out if he didn't stop soon.

“No, no, _no, NO, CASTIEL!”_

Sam opened his eyes, mouth falling open in stunned disbelief at the sight before him. He was not dead, because Castiel hadn't let him die. The angel had shielded Sam with his own body, moving in front of him at the speed of light, taking the blade meant for him. The blade that was now sticking out of the center of his chest, the last sparks of his Grace fading away. There was a pair of large black wings seared into the ground where Castiel was lying, eyes still open, wide and unseeing.

Sam wasn't aware when he'd begun screaming – all he knew was that he was seeing red, and it was flooding each and every one of his senses until he couldn't feel anything but raw, powerful fury, an emotion to rival Rowena's. His ears were roaring, not with the wind but with the furious pumping of his own blood, his heartrate so fast that it was a wonder he hadn't hemorrhaged yet due to the rise in blood pressure. Nearby Crowley was staring at Castiel's remains in shock, but Sam paid him no mind, rushing at Rowena one last time with his blade.

He didn't care if he lived or died. He didn't care if Crowley lived or died. He didn't even spare a thought to Dean. All he cared about in that moment was Rowena, about causing her the most pain he could, making her _suffer_ for what she'd just done. Something in the way he was screaming must have thrown her off – she was looking at him with her mouth slightly open, her amputated arm dangling uselessly by her side, staining her torn dress.

She came to her senses a second too late, but Sam was already upon her, stabbing and slicing at every part of her he could reach, her body pinned under his weight. He was only dimly aware of the pain in his throat as he sobbed and screamed at the same time, yelling expletives and words that even he didn't understand, stabbing Rowena over and over again, delighting in her screams of agony.

He felt a hand land on his shoulder and almost ripped it off, but Crowley got his ass out of there before Sam could, rematerializing a safe distance away. Sam didn't even bother looking at him, fueled on by his own anger, Rowena's cries for mercy and her blood spattering all over his face as he cut off her other arm at the elbow, plunged his blade into her abdomen. She was flailing weakly, begging him to stop, to show some mercy, weak cowardly bitch that she was, her ruined arms waving madly, her legs kicking uselessly under Sam. And when the screaming got too annoying he gouged her throat out, before sinking the blade into her left eye.

She twitched once, twice and then no more, her entire body stilling. The ground stopped shaking completely, the wind dropped to nothing above a whisper and the force field flickered out of existence, marking her death, but Sam didn't stop, couldn't make himself. All he could think of was Castiel, all he could see was blood red, all he could hear was the rush in his own ears.

Distantly he heard Dean calling him name, sounding terrified, but paid him no mind until he felt strong arms wrap around him and forcefully drag him away from Rowena's mutilated corpse. He yelled and lashed out, but Dean had his arms pinned to his side and he couldn't move, not without hurting Dean. “Hey, Sam, Sammy, look at me!” Dean was commanding loudly, shaking him. “ _Look at me, Sam!”_

Sam did, breathing heavily, only now realizing that his face was wet not just with blood but also with hot tears, his shirt soaked red. “Sam, drop the blade,” Dean demanded, refusing to let go of Sam until he obeyed. “ _Drop it!”_

Literally the same words Sam had said to Dean once upon a time so long ago, and they had the same effect on him that they'd had on his brother. His fingers loosened and the blade slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground where it was immediately picked up by Crowley and thrown far out of his reach. “Bloody hell, Moose,” Crowley whispered, his face white as he stared at what had once been his mother.

Dean didn't loosen his grip on Sam even as they both sank to the ground, Sam only barely registering the tear tracks on Dean's face, how red he was from screaming. “Sammy,” Dean whispered, the sound coming out hoarse and broken. “Oh _God_ , Sammy,” he said, his voice breaking, and then he was clutching Sam to him, hands fisting in Sam's shirt, and Sam completely melted into his brother's arms, face smushed into his shoulder. He felt numb, so numb and tired, _so tired_...

The last thing he registered before passing out was Dean's panicked shout of “Sammy!”

## NOW

Sam wakes with a start, his heart beating so fast it feels like it will rip through his chest, his breathing rapid like he's just been running a marathon. At first he doesn't understand what's wrong, not until he remembers that he'd had a bad dream and that's what woke him up. It takes another moment for the contents of the dream to catch up with him, and when they do his eyes involuntarily fill up, the sick feeling that always seems to be in his stomach making itself known.

 _Castiel_.

He presses his lips together tightly, willing himself not to cry. It works for all of half a minute before the first tear spills over, and he screws his eyes shut, wiping at it furiously with the back of his hand. God, this sucks. At least it's not as bad as it used to be, a few weeks earlier when the smallest thing set him off.

Small comfort, that. He can only hope the curse wears off sooner, rather than later.

The room is dark, the only light being the pale yellow glow of a streetlamp from outside, mixed in with some flickering neon from the motel sign. The moon isn't very bright tonight. The fluorescent hands on the watch on his side table tell him it's just a little after half past two.

“Dean?” he calls out, his voice a whisper, as he feels his throat closing up with tears again. Some more of them fall, and he gives up trying to keep his face dry. Under normal circumstances he would never wake Dean after a nightmare, especially if he feels he could handle it. Not that there's a point, because Dean always wakes up anyway.

But these aren't normal circumstances, and he _can't_ handle it. Not when the wound is still so fresh and raw. “Dean?” he tries again. Just a small whisper of his name usually wakes Dean, so why isn't he responding now?

A moment later Sam realizes that he can't hear the sound of Dean's slow, deep breathing, the occasional light snore, and he throws his comforter off himself, almost falling off the bed in his hurry to switch on the lamp. Dean's bed is empty, and Sam's heart is in his throat as he sees that it hasn't been slept in at all – the comforter is still folded neatly at the foot of the bed, the sheets are entirely devoid of wrinkles, and the pillow has no indent in the middle.

“Dean!” he calls again, though he knows there's no point. In the dim light of the lamp he can see his jacket hung over the back of a chair, and he stumbles over to it, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. He finds his cell phone after a moment of rummaging through the pockets, and speed-dials Dean.

It goes straight to voice mail. _This is Dean's other other **other** number. If you've gotten this far you clearly have a problem; leave it here after the beep._

He tries another one of Dean's numbers, and yet another, though he has no hope that Dean will pick up. Dean only uses one cell phone at a time, and the rest are stashed in the glove compartment of the Impala. Still, Sam clings on to some faint hope that maybe Dean's phone died and he took another one with him–

With him where?

There are no signs of a struggle around the motel room, but that's not to say there wasn't one. Sam puts his phone down and makes his way to the door, unlocking it with shaking hands and pushing it open. The parking lot is illuminated only by the dull glow of the streetlamps and the neon signs, barely a sliver of moonlight. He spots a few Chevies and Buicks here and there, and a red Mustang he remembers admiring when they'd pulled into the parking lot – but no Impala. There is no sign of their baby.

He inhales deeply, suddenly feeling like his lungs are slowly deflating and he can't get enough air into them. His heart is beating fit to burst, a frantic drumbeat against the inside of his ribcage that's almost painful now. The world is still blurry around the edges, hazy somewhat, and Sam _knows_ he's still sick and shouldn't be on his feet right now but he can't find it within himself to care.

A million thoughts per second run through his mind as he stumbles back inside, making sure the door is locked before collapsing on his bed. No signs of a struggle. Dean's phone off. No Impala. Has Dean left? _Would_ Dean do that, when he's sick and cursed and struggling not to cave under the burden of knowing that Cas is dead and it's because of him?

Or is that why Dean left?

Sam inhales again, this time through his mouth as well as his nose, over and over, but it still feels like he can't force enough oxygen into his lungs no matter what he does. He grabs on to the sheets with one hand to center himself, the other fisted and pressing over his heart, and he tries to take a few deep breaths to calm himself down so he can think rationally about this.

It doesn't work – all he has to do is look at Dean's pristine bed and his breathing and heart rate get faster, as well as the urge to throw up. There are tears running in earnest down his face, and he doesn't realize he's whispering Dean's name until he coughs and sneezes halfway through repeating it like a mantra that will bring him back.

“Cas, I need your help,” he wheezes out, knowing that the angel will always drop whatever he's doing to come help him–

And then Sam lets out a sob as he remembers that Castiel will never help him again, he's dead and Sam will never see him or hear his voice again, and _it's all his fault_

The room is spinning and there is a throbbing in his head

_if only he'd been more cautious, taken more care, this wouldn't have happened_

and all he can do is hold his hand over his thumping heart and try to think over the rush in his ears

_Cas wouldn't be dead and Dean wouldn't be gone, I wouldn't be in this ratty ass motel struggling to breathe_

but nothing makes sense, his head hurts, his entire body hurts, he can't breathe

_it's not worth it, I'm not worth it_

and there is black circling his vision, it feels like he's dying–

Dimly he hears the low thrum of an engine turning off, followed a few seconds later by the door opening and Dean's heavy footsteps. There is a _click_ as Dean turns the light on, and another second passes as he registers the scene in front of him, Sam kneeling by the foot of his bed, face red and wet with tears, struggling to get a breath past his lips–

“Jesus, Sam!” Dean yells, dropping the car keys and falling to his knees besides Sam. He puts an arm around him and bodily drags him closer, and even through his screen of agony Sam can smell the whiskey on his breath, and suddenly it all clicks.

Dean went out and got drunk.

He makes a small, angry sound and tries to pull away from his brother, but Dean's holding him close, his hand over Sam's on his chest, ordering, “Breathe with me, Sammy, come on, in, out, in, out, you got this, buddy, you got this, you're gonna be okay–” and it's working. It always works when Dean does it. Already it feels like his heart is beginning to slow down, his lungs filling with air as he draws in breath, fingers clutched in Dean's shirt.

“There you go, that's it, easy, kiddo,” Dean says soothingly, drawing Sam close so that Sam's head rests on his shoulder. Sam wants nothing more than to just sink into Dean's embrace and find solace there, but he can't, not when his chest still hurts a little and Dean's breath stinks of alcohol.

“You were gone,” he says, voice raspy and hoarse, as he pulls out of Dean's arms and looks him in the face. “Dean– I woke up, and you were gone.”

Dean has the courtesy to look ashamed, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Sam,” he begins.

“Dean, you _promised_.” Sam tries not to sound like a kid, and for the most part he succeeds, but he can't help the accusatory tone that creeps into his voice. “You _promised_ me you'd try to control the drinking, that you wouldn't do this!” He grabs on to the edge of the bed and tries to stand, but the ground shifts dizzyingly and he falls back on the mattress, taking a moment to clear his head before looking back to Dean, who's standing now.

“Sam, you've got to rest,” he begins, looking concerned at Sam's state, but Sam's having none of it.

“God dammit, Dean!” he shouts, his voice a fraction of its normal volume but conveying his anger all the same. “Do you have _any_ idea what I thought when I woke up to see you weren't there? I thought you'd been taken, or – or _dead_! And you were out _drinking_? What the fuck is wrong with you?” He stops, glaring at Dean, chest heaving.

“Sam, calm down,” Dean tries, frowning at him. “Look, you're sick, okay? You need to _rest_ , and this isn't rest!”

“Don't tell me what to do!” Sam retorts, angrily fisting his hands in the sheets so that he won't end up throwing things around. Not that there's much that he _can_ throw in the barely furnished motel room, but Sam's always been of the firm belief that you can do anything you set your mind to, and if that involved finding things to throw, then by God he'd do it.

His eye catches something on the floor near the bedside table. It's a piece of paper with Dean's handwriting scrawled on it, and Sam groans silently to himself. Dean had left him a note, which he must have swept off the table in his initial panic. He wonders if his panic attack could have been avoided if he'd seen the note, but he doesn't think so, somehow.

“I had a nightmare,” he says a few seconds later, during which he gets his breathing under control while Dean watches uncertainly. “Dean, I – Cas is dead.” Sam's voice breaks on the last word. “He's _dead_ , Dean, and I can't stop _seeing_ it, and then I thought you were gone–”

“Where did you think I went?” Dean asks gently, sitting down next to Sam so that he's not towering over his brother. He sounds completely sober now.

“I don't know,” Sam admits quietly, hating that he's tearing up again, seriously, fuck this curse _so much_. “I thought that maybe you blamed me for Cas–”

“Why the hell would I blame you for that?” demands Dean.

“Because he died for me, Dean!” Sam says, voice rising to almost a shout. “If I'd been more careful, if I hadn't been _so fucking single-minded_ , he would be alive! Dean, it's my fucking fault, why _wouldn't_ you blame me for it? Hell, I'd understand it if you _had_ left because of that–”

Dean blanches, and Sam stops talking at once, aware he's admitted too much. “Sammy,” Dean says, voice disbelieving, and then he pauses, opening and closing his mouth a few times while he evidently tries to figure out what to say to disabuse Sam of this notion. “Sammy, what the hell?” is what he finally goes with. “How could you think that? Sam, I would _never_ leave because of that. Or any other reason, ever. I know I've done that before, but.” He fixes Sam with an intense stare, the _you listen to me right the fuck now, kiddo_ look that he's been using since he was 7 at least. “Sam, I'm _never_ going to leave you, _ever_ , you hear?” Leaning slightly to the side, he takes Sam's hands into his own, squeezing his fingers tightly. “Look, what happened to Cas isn't on you, okay? It fucking sucks and neither of us will ever be over it but _it's not your fault_.”

Sam looks at him uncertainly, biting his lower lip. “Dean–”

“No, hear me out,” interjects Dean. “Sam, he died for _you_. He took the blade meant for you, because you meant enough to him for him to do that. He didn't even hesitate, man, I was there, I _saw_ it happen.” He winces at the memory, and the lump in Sam's throat returns when he remembers that he just saw Castiel's corpse on the ground, whereas Dean saw the entire main event in gory Technicolor detail. “There was nothing you could've done, Sam,” Dean says quietly, and Sam looks up to see Dean looking at him, a determined yet soft expression on his face. “It's not your fault. And if you think it is, you're just dishonoring his memory. Don't do that to him. Don't do that to _yourself_.”

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a small sob. Immediately Dean wraps both arms around him – again – and pulls him closer, placing one hand on Sam's shoulder and the other on the back of his head. “Hey, let it out,” he says quietly, rubbing soothing circles into Sam's back. “Just let it out, buddy, you need to let it out. It's okay, I'm here, I've gotcha. You can let go.”

And Sam does. He grabs Dean's shirt with both hands and cries, cries like he hasn't since Cas died, sobbing out words that Dean doesn't understand, words that make no sense, until Dean's shirt is wet and Sam feels like there are no tears left for his body to produce. Still he doesn't stop, because the truth is that even though he's been crying on and off since Cas died, it was largely exacerbated by the curse and he'd been so busy trying to hold his grief back and control it that he never did get the chance to properly deal with it. Tamping it down so that he wouldn't dehydrate from crying wasn't really a good way of dealing with things.

He doesn't stop until his throat is hoarse and he feels exhausted, like all the energy has been drained out of him in one go. His hands fall away from Dean's shirt and he slumps against his brother, head resting on his shoulder. Dean is still rubbing his back, and it takes Sam a moment to register that the slight wetness in his hair is from Dean's own tears.

“Feeling better?” Dean asks when Sam's been quiet for a few seconds. Sam nods, feeling too tired to string together sentences or even words. “I think we needed that,” Dean confesses, resting his cheek on top of Sam's head. “You and me both.”

“I miss him,” Sam admits quietly.

“Me too,” Dean replies, his arms tightening around Sam. “Every day, buddy.”

“Sometimes I forget he's gone,” Sam tells him. “And I try to call him and then I remember he's never going to answer.” His voice sounds brittle and weak to his own ears, but he's too fatigued to cry any more.

“I know,” Dean says, his hand stilling for a moment before continuing drawing circles into Sam's shoulder. “I know,” he repeats, and his voice breaks. “God, Sammy, maybe this wouldn't be so bad if we didn't know that there's nothing left of him. Angels don't have souls.”

Sam twitches involuntarily at that, his eyes prickling with what he's sure would be tears, if he had any left. “He came back once, though,” he mutters against Dean's collarbone. “You told me he came back after I – after Lucifer exploded him.”

“I don't think that's going to happen, Sam,” Dean says gently, his tone genuinely regretful, and Sam knows he's thought about this too. “Things were... different then.”

“All the same,” Sam replies quietly. “Maybe he'll be there when we die and go to Heaven.”

“Maybe,” Dean echoes, and despite his previous assertion, Sam doesn't miss the barely detectable hope in his voice, that maybe they haven't lost their friend forever after all. But the fact of the matter is that all signs still point to him being dead as a doornail, and Sam knows that thinking anything else would just be lying to himself. Hell, they burned his body themselves.

Sam gets it now, why people believe so ardently in an afterlife even though most of them have no proof it exists. It's comforting to think that your loved one isn't entirely gone, that they still exist somewhere and maybe one day you can meet again. It still doesn't make the entire thing easier – hell, it makes it _worse_ , knowing that there's no afterlife for angels.

His train of thought is disturbed when Dean sighs and he catches a whiff of Dean's breath, and grimaces. “Why the hell did you do that?” he asks, moving away from Dean's arms so he can look him in the eyes.

Dean grimaces too. “I was thinking about Cas, and I couldn't take it,” he admits. “I just couldn't deal with it. I wanted to forget.”

“How's that going for you?” Sam inquires, sounding a little irate but mostly just... tired.

Dean picks up on it too, and going by his face he feels bad about it. “Not good,” he tells Sam with a small, bitter smile. “You kinda saw that coming, didn't you.”

“I've seen it many times,” Sam sighs. “You're always thinking that drowning in a bottle of Jack is gonna help you cope but it just makes you worse, Dean. It always has.”

“I know,” Dean confesses with a self-deprecating snort. “But I can't stop, Sam, I don't know what else to do.”

Sam reaches over and places his hand on Dean's forearm. “Talk to me,” he says quietly. “You talk to me, Dean. I'm right here, and I'm always gonna be. Talk about whatever you want, and I'll listen for as long as you want me to.”

Dean looks at him, clearly considering it. Then he smiles, covering Sam's hand on his arm. “Okay, Sammy,” he promises. “Whatever you say.”

Sam smiles back, his lips quirking up at the corners. “You swear?”

“I swear,” Dean assures him. He pats Sam's hand, before getting up. “Let's get you into bed now. You need rest, Sammy, you're still sick.”

Sam doesn't protest, instead choosing to oblige and slide under his comforter, wrapping it around himself along with the extra blanket Dean had put on him earlier. Dean kicks off his shoes and socks and slings his jacket over the second chair before getting into the other bed, and turning the lamp off. “'Night, buddy,” he says, and now that he's in bed and relaxed, Sam can hear the fatigue in his voice.

“'Night, Dean,” he returns, and closes his eyes. Dean's snoring in under a minute, which is good. He can sleep off the alcohol and the tiredness, and Sam can sleep off his fever, and maybe in the morning they can start over again.

## THEN

Sam woke to a dull throbbing in his head, his entire body feeling heavy and sore. It took him a few seconds to register that he was back in the bunker, in his own bed, and there was a weight on one side of it that indicated someone was sitting on his mattress. He opened his eyes with a small groan to find Dean, looking down at him with worry lines all over his face. “About time,” he said, his voice scratchy from lack of sleep.

“How long was I out?” Sam asked, trying to sit up but surrendering to the heaviness in his body and lying back down.

“Four days,” Dean informed him quietly, putting a hand to his forehead. “You were running a pretty high fever. It only broke last night. How are you feeling now?”

“Tired as hell, and like I can't move,” Sam answered, shifting until he was comfortable – more or less – again. “Dean, what happened?”

Dean's face went white. “You don't remember?” he asked, and Sam only heard the slight tremor in his voice because he knew Dean better than anyone else.

“No, I don't remember,” he replied, confused. What could have happened that had Dean looking like–

It hit him like a freight train, and for a long agonizing moment it felt like he couldn't breathe. “Cas,” he whispered. “ _Cas_.” He made to get up again, but Dean pushed him down with a gentle yet firm hand to the shoulder.

“Sam, you need rest–”

“No!” Sam yelled. “Dean, _Cas is gone_ –”

And to his horror, he found he couldn't complete his sentence, because all that came out were broken cries. Dean's face crumpled into worry and heartbreak and he leaned in, wiping Sam's tears away. “Hey, hey, Sammy,” he tried, voice soothing, but none of it was working, Sam just couldn't stop crying no matter how hard he tried.

“What's happening to me?” he managed to get out between sobs, his hand grasping Dean's painfully tight as he tried to get himself under control.

Dean looked like he couldn't understand himself, if the look of concern on his face was anything to go by. Still, he tried. “Sammy, you – it's understandable, okay,” he said, looking like he was doing his best not to start bawling himself. “I mean, what you've just...”

“No, that's not it!” Sam gasped out, heart fluttering wildly in his chest. “Dean, she did something to me! Rowena, she, she said some stuff, she _cursed_ me!”

There was a momentary pause as Dean took this in, and then he swore vehemently. “ _Fuck!_ What kind of curse, Sam, do you know? Did you hear it?”

Sam strained to remember, to slip past the memory of a bright flash of light and black wings spread wide – “I think the same one she did on the vics,” he said, struggling to speak past his tears and hating every moment of it. “Dean, I – I can't _stop_!”

“Oh, God,” whispered Dean, before leaning in and laying a hand on Sam's forehead. “Oh, no, _Sammy_.”

And seriously, how unfair was it that Dean had to worry about Sam now on top of everything else? On top of the death of someone so close to them he might as well have been their brother too? The thought multiplied the tears with a vengeance, until Sam was curled on his side and openly sobbing into his pillow, Dean's other hand still clutched between both of his own, cradled to his chest. “ _I can't stop!”_ he repeated, anguished, trying to breathe and get himself back together and being unable to.

Dean's free hand was running through his hair in an attempt to soothe him, smoothing it away from his face and wiping his tears at the same time. He didn't say anything as Sam cried, and Sam knew it was because there was nothing he could say that would make it better. There was nothing he could _do_ , except comfort his brother and wait for him to stop.

Eventually Samhiccupped into silence, a good hour after he'd begun, feeling exhausted again. He was still holding Dean's hand, and Dean was still tenderly running his fingers through his hair, occasionally wiping away tears with his thumb. “Hey,” he said softly when he saw Sam had finally stopped.

“How long is it going to last?” Sam asked instead of replying, his voice hoarse and wet.

“I have no idea,” Dean admitted, his face falling. “But I think that since she's dead, it's not going to last. It'll wear off. Eventually.”

Sam considered that. “Could – could Crowley remove it?”

Dean shook his head. “No, she always did her curses in a way he can't undo. She was stronger than him, Sammy. I don't think he could do anything. I think we'll just have to wait it out.” His entire body shuddered involuntarily at the thought of Sam crying like this again, and Sam felt it, squeezing his fingers and offering whatever small comfort he could in his desolate, helpless state.

As he did so his sight fell on Dean's right arm. Dean was wearing a half-sleeved shirt, something he hadn't done since he'd been turned back human by his brother. Sam glanced at Dean's forearm, and saw nothing but smooth, even skin.

“Yeah, it's gone,” Dean whispered, having followed Sam's gaze. He smiled down at his brother uncertainly but sincerely. “You did it, kiddo. You saved me.”

Sam tried to smile back even though it still felt like his heart was being ripped to pieces. He ended up crying again, though, and this time he shifted his head to Dean's lap and sobbed himself back to sleep, Dean's fingers in his hair as he murmured reassuring words that didn't even make any sense.

 

He woke what felt like days later but was only a few hours, according to the clock on his side table. Dean was nowhere to be seen, but if the smell of eggs frying was anything to go by, he was in the kitchen.

Sam sat up and swung his legs over the side, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. It came away wet, and he realized that he'd been crying in his sleep. His throat felt raw, like he'd been screaming for hours. Maybe he had; he had no way to know but to ask Dean and hope he'd reply.

He stood, running his fingers through his bedhead in an attempt to look somewhat presentable, before noticing that he was in his shorts and undershirt. Dean had gotten rid of the extra layers at some point, probably when Sam was out cold and feverish, and Sam felt grateful. Even now the minimal clothing felt too hot and constricting, and his skin felt cold and clammy, and an experimental sniff told him he reeked of sweat. Grimacing, he made his way to the bathroom for a shower.

Throughout his shower he forced himself to keep his mind blank, to think of nothing but the practiced motions of washing his hair, scrubbing down his body until his skin felt raw, brushing his teeth and letting the cool water wash away his aches. He dried himself and put on easy, comfortable clothes – a T-shirt and shorts, since he still felt too feverish for anything else just yet – and made his way to the kitchen.

Sure enough Dean was standing at the small stove, frying eggs sunny side up, just the way he knew Sam liked them. “Hey,” he said in an entirely too cheerful tone when he heard Sam come in. “How're you doing, buddy?”

Sam's only answer was a noncommittal grunt, as he sat himself down at the small plastic table and reached for the carton of orange juice, pouring himself some. Dean set down a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, and sat down across from him. “No, serious, Sammy, how are you?” he asked, looking at Sam as if trying to figure out his mental state.

“I'm okay, I guess,” Sam said, picking at his food. “Better than before, I think.”

“That's good to hear,” Dean replied, smiling warmly at him. “Hey, d'you wanna go for a walk after breakfast? I think some fresh air might do you good.”

Sam shrugged. He still hadn't taken a bite, and Dean was watching him closely, expectantly. To appease his big brother, he stuffed some toast in his mouth, chewing mechanically. As usual Dean's cooking was amazing, but to Sam it felt like he was trying to swallow dry cardboard. Still, he gulped it down, then forced a smile in Dean's direction. “Thanks for the breakfast.”

Dean nodded at him. “Glad you like it, Sammy. Now, about that walk.”

“Do I really have to?” Sam asked before he could stop himself.

“It's up to you,” Dean told him. “I can't force you to come if you don't want to. But I think it'll be good for you.”

Sam mulled it over, considering. Then he said, “Okay.”

Dean smiled, entirely too brightly to be normal. “Great. Why don't you go get dressed and I'll wait for you by the door.”

They set out in the bright sun ten minutes later, walking slowly, side by side. Dean tried once or twice to make conversation, but gave up after Sam's monosyllable answers, and they went along in silence, walking down the small road in the direction of the town.

Sam tried really hard to keep his mind occupied – he tried documenting what species of flowers they saw on their way, he tried counting pebbles, he even tried humming to himself (the last one earned him an odd look from Dean) – but no matter what he did his mind always came back to the same thing

_Castiel_

and with that thought came a pain so sharp it felt almost physical, like his heart had forgotten how to beat and his lungs were deflating slowly, unable to pull in oxygen. He tried fighting it, he really did, but the harder he tried to push down the memories of that night, the worse his condition became.

“Sam?” Dean sounded concerned, his hand a heavy, solid weight on Sam's shoulder, and Sam realized he was gasping for breath. “Sammy, you all right?”

Sam tried his best to answer, but he only got as far as “Dean, I can't stop thinking of him–” before his traitorous body gave in to the curse and his words devolved into a desperate, heart wrenching wail, his hand automatically going up to clutch at Dean's arm. “Dean, I,” he began, before breaking down again, and it felt like his heart was going to literally break, just split right down the middle and lie there uselessly in his chest.

Dean wrapped both arms around Sam and dragged him close into his embrace, not giving a single shit that they were at the side of the road a fair distance from the bunker, where anyone who passed by could see them. He held Sam tight, Sam's face pressed into his shoulder as he cried, great heaving sobs being ripped from him, his entire body shaking so hard Dean was finding it hard to stand still. “Sammy, shh, hey, kid,” he tried, keeping his voice low and soothing.

Sam didn't stop though, both hands clutching Dean's shirt tightly, his entire body feeling weak and fatigued from all the crying but unable to stop as he wept into Dean's shirt, trying to draw in breath whenever he could, taking in deep lungfuls but still feeling like he was asphyxiating to death, and it felt like he would keep right at it until his body ran out of water and he died.

Once or twice he tried speaking, but all that passed his lips was either Dean's name or Castiel's before his crying got too worse to carry on, and Dean's fingers were going through his hair, Dean's lips were pressed to his temple, whispering soft, reassuring words, but no matter what Sam tried, he just couldn't get himself to stop.

His knees gave out and he sank to the ground, dragging Dean down with him. Memories of that night kept running through his head at lightning speed, replaying and torturing him with the knowledge of what he'd done, that Castiel had died for him, had died _defending_ him–

Dean pushed at him and he hiccupped, even as Dean placed his hands on either side of Sam's face and forced him to look up and at him, at those brilliant green eyes filled with unshed tears and pain so deep it hurt Sam's heart. “Hey, look at me, buddy,” Dean said gently, wiping at Sam's tears with his thumbs. “You're okay, you hear? Let's get you back home, kiddo, come on.” He put Sam's arm around himself and helped him stand, soothing him with little touches here and there. “Come on, let's get you home.”

The walk back to the bunker was slower than the walk up to that point had been, Sam feeling too exhausted to pick up his pace, and Dean taking care to keep by his side and not go too fast. He still had his arm around Sam's waist even though Sam's had dropped from his shoulders to his side, and he kept murmuring encouragements to Sam, who just sniffled quietly and tried his best not to break down again, feeling all cried out.

Instead of the war room or either of their rooms, Dean led him to the small room they'd put a TV and couch in, and helped him lie down, spreading a warm blanket over him. “I'll be back in a minute,” he said and left, returning in record time with a glass of water. “Here, drink this,” he ordered softly, pressing it into Sam's hands.

Sam obliged, drinking half of it before setting it aside on the small coffee table. “I'm so sorry,” he said quietly. “I don't... I wish this wasn't happening.”

“Me too,” Dean said, sitting down by Sam's side, “but it's not your fault, Sam. She cursed you.”

Sam grimaced. “It hurts so fucking much,” he whispered plaintively. “I'm trying so hard not to think of him–” he couldn't even bring himself to say the angel's name out loud, “but it's not working. And when I _do_ end up thinking of him, it feels like someone's ripping my heart out of my chest.”

Dean stared at him. “Sammy?”

It took Sam a moment, and then he grimaced again. “I didn't mean to say all that out loud. Do you think it's the curse?”

Dean nodded. “What else could it be?”

“So now I'm crying and oversharing,” Sam muttered, covering his face in his hands. “Great.”

Reaching over, Dean tenderly removed his hands from his face before smoothing his hair away from his forehead. “You'll be all right,” was all he said. “Get some sleep, Sammy. I'll be right here.”

Sam nodded, turned on his side and closed his eyes, resolutely ignoring the few tears that leaked out. He felt Dean's callused fingers wipe them away, and heard the _click_ of lights being switched off, followed by Dean saying with infinite softness in his voice, “Rest, kiddo. I'm right here.”

Sam slept.

 

Dean was woken in the middle of the night by screaming, and immediately he was out of bed, gun in hand, making his way to the source. Sam's door was ajar, and the kid was thrashing in his bed, screaming so loud that it seemed to rip Dean apart from the inside out. Immediately he dropped his gun and rushed inside, sitting down on the bed and shaking Sam, trying to get him to wake up.

Sam only shook harder, flailing, almost hitting Dean on the face more than once. In the end Dean had to resort to slapping his face lightly, yelling, “Wake up, Sam, it's a dream! Come on, _wake up_!”

Sam came to with a start, shooting upright, looking around wildly. “Hey, hey, it's me,” Dean said, putting his hand over Sam's heart, alarmed to feel it beating so fast it felt like the kid's entire body was vibrating. “It's me, Sammy, you're all right. It was just a dream.”

His kid brother looked at him, chest heaving with exertion from the screaming, and recognition took over his features. “It was just a dream,” repeated Dean, not taking his hand off Sam's chest, his other one on Sam's shoulder. “You're okay, kiddo.”

Sam nodded, his eyes filling up again, and launched himself forward, throwing his arms around Dean's middle and sobbing into his chest. Instead of the loud, desolate crying from earlier, this time Sam was quiet, like his throat wasn't capable of anything more, even as he cried so hard his entire body shook, a wet spot forming on Dean's shirt where Sam's face was. Shaken but not showing it for Sam's sake, Dean wrapped both arms around his brother and rubbed his back, whispering unintelligible yet hopefully soothing things to him.

This kind of crying felt worse than the sobbing of earlier, and Dean felt his heart clench painfully at the sight of his brother, weeping helplessly, unable to stop himself. It felt his heart was going to fall to pieces. First Cas, now Sam... and he couldn't even imagine what it must be like for Sam. His own pain at losing a person he considered family was so great that it was all he could do not to scream. Sam probably felt like he was going to die from the agony of it.

Eventually the kid quieted down, though, sobs fading into small hiccups, face smushed against Dean's chest. Dean laid him back down gently on his pillow and got into bed next to him, sitting up with his back against the headboard, one hand on Sam's forehead, the other drawing the blanket up to his chin. He didn't move until he was absolutely sure Sam had fallen back asleep, silvery tear tracks glistening on his warm, blotchy face, fingers curled loosely around Dean's free hand.

Dean leaned down, pressed his lips to Sam's temple, and then gently pulled his hand from Sam's. He left Sam's door ajar, so that if Sam woke again he'd hear, and went down to the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of Jack from the liquor cabinet and a glass, and poured himself a drink.

He didn't stop till the bottle was only a quarter full, finally passing out with his head and arms on the kitchen table.

## NOW

Sam wakes to the low sound of singing, and the sensation of fingers in his hair. It takes him a moment to place the song – it's _Blood Brothers_ by Iron Maiden – and he opens his eyes to find Dean sitting up next to him in bed and looking down at him, face soft. The lines of hard exhaustion and grief that had been present before are now visibly less. “Hey, Sammy,” he says, and smiles.

“What time is it?” asks Sam groggily, shifting closer to his brother and resting his head in Dean's lap.

“It's half past eight,” Dean answers. “But we don't have anywhere to be today, so rest up.”

“The case,” begins Sam.

“Don't worry about it,” Dean cuts him off. “I talked to Mike, he's gonna finish it up for us.”

There is a pause, and then Sam says, surprisingly complacent, “Okay.” There is a comfortable quiet for a few minutes, and then Sam raises his head to look at Dean and says, tone thoughtful, “You were singing to me.”

Dean rubs the back of his head with his free hand, looking a bit embarrassed. “I – yeah. Figured it worked before, it'll work well enough now.”

Sam murmurs a sleepy “mmh” and drops his head back in Dean's lap. “Don't stop,” he adds sleepily.

Dean chuckles quietly, and for the first time in a long time he sounds genuinely amused, and – at the risk of pressing their luck – _happy_. “Okay, Sammy,” he says agreeably. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah,” is Sam's short answer. “Now less talking and more singing.”

His brother laughs again. “Bossy,” he teases, but continues anyway, singing softly until Sam falls back asleep.

 

Neither of them bother getting out of bed for anything more urgent than peeing, not until half an hour past noon. Sam's temperature has gone down considerably and he's much steadier on his feet, and suggests that they could leave town tonight. Mike should be arriving the next morning, and even though he's a fairly stand-up guy, Sam doesn't want him to see the state they're both in. Word travels fast in the hunting community, and Sam knows for a fact that there are still hunters who want to pay them back for the Apocalypse. He doesn't want anyone coming after them thinking they're too out of it to defend themselves.

Dean's response is to declare loudly while waving about a gun, “Fuck it, Sam, we're staying here till you get better, and that's it. If anyone tries to kill us I'll get them first.” He brandishes the gun some more for extra effect.

Sam sighs, and he huffs, but he inevitably gives in. His slight headache, a leftover from last night, doesn't do much for his case either. “How come you don't have a headache?” he moans at Dean some time later. “You drank like, a lake!”

Oh, they're joking about it now? That, Dean can handle just fine. “First of all, it wasn't a lake, it was just a shit-ton of bottles. A pond at best,” he says, sounding annoyingly cocky even to his own ears. “Secondly, I'm just that lucky, Sammy. Big brother luck.”

“Fuck off,” groans Sam, and Dean laughs, loud and bright.

“It's 'cause I'm the hotter one,” he says, and winks. Sam can't find it within himself to keep pretending he's mad, and he muffles a huff of amusement into his pillow.

They spend their evening watching old movies on the crappy TV and occasionally exchanging comments. Dean keeps reaching over and placing his hand on Sam's forehead, but Sam's a lot better now and he knows Dean is just doing it out of concern, and so he doesn't gripe about it like he would have.

There are moments when he still thinks of Cas and he still feels like he's going to start crying and never stop, but he holds himself together and tamps it down. It works, for the most part; he doesn't let it go beyond a few silent tears that are surreptitiously wiped away while Dean pretends not to notice. Mostly, though, it just feels like a sharp, throbbing ache in his chest.

## THEN

When Dean woke, it was to the sound of the coffeemaker going and the clatter of ceramic. He raised his head from his arm, groaned at the sharp headache that movement brought to his attention, and blinked at Sam. “Whatcha doin'?” he asked, feeling like there was a dead animal in his mouth. Which, ew, _gross_.

“Making coffee,” Sam answered in the subdued tones Dean was coming to expect from him. “Here.” He set down a mug in front of Dean, who couldn't help but greedily inhale the strong aroma like it was oxygen.

“Sammy, you're a gift,” he moaned, attacking the coffee.

Sam just made a noncommittal sound and sat down across from Dean, cradling his own cup of coffee. “You look hungover,” he commented quietly.

“That's because I am, college boy,” Dean replied in between sips of his coffee. He knew Sam wasn't up for it – truth be told neither was he – but he kept hoping that if he tried being funny for long enough, eventually Sam would give in and crack a smile.

But Sam didn't even respond, instead choosing to sip his coffee. Dean sighed, and resolved to try harder.

That resolve crumbled into bits and pieces when Sam looked up abruptly and asked, “Cas?”

Dean set his mug down and stared at Sam, trying to gauge his face for anything other than the slight hint of tears in his eyes, and the way his mouth pulled downward at the corners. “What about him?” he asked carefully, guarded.

“Did you bury him?” Sam asked, biting at his bottom lip to try and keep from crying. It didn't work very well; the tears were falling down his face in earnest now, but hey, at least he wasn't sobbing uncontrollably. Dean took his victories where he found them.

“No,” he replied, throat dry but also feeling like there were glass shards stuck in it. “No, I – I thought we could give him a hunter's funeral.”

Sam exhaled through his nose, wiped at the tears on his face somewhat furiously, and then nodded. “Okay. When?”

“Whenever you're ready, Sam,” Dean told him gently. He'd had a few days to do what had to be done and to brace himself for it, but to Sam it probably still felt raw and painful, like a burn that just refused to heal. Dean knew the feeling all too well.

Sam was silent for a few minutes, both their coffees forgotten in the space between them on the table. Dean could see he was crying again, silently, biting his lip viciously in an attempt to stop and only managing to bloody it up quite badly. His own grief reared his head, felt like a jagged ball of agony in the pit of his stomach, but he forced himself not to give in to it just yet. Maybe later, when Sam was asleep and he could drink in peace.

Instead he reached out across the table and touched Sam's face with his fingertips, smoothing his thumb over Sam's bottom lip. “Hey, stop,” he said, “or you're gonna chew it off entirely.”

Sam looked up at him, mute pain and helplessness in his eyes, and it suddenly felt like Dean was cold, so cold, and never going to be warm again. He hoped he would never have to see that expression on Sam's face again, that raw agony that Sam had always been so good at hiding before.

He got out of his chair and stepped round the table, kneeling so he was more level with Sam's face. “Hey, it's okay to cry,” he said gently, wiping away a few tears with his hands. “It's okay, Sammy, you don't have to hold it in.”

So Sam let go, sliding down his chair so that he was sitting with Dean on the kitchen floor, face pressed into his jacket, and really, it had only been one day but this was getting seriously old, and really tiresome. Still, it wasn't Sam's fault, and the kid needed an outlet. Truth be told it was probably a good thing, thought Dean as he wrapped his arms around Sam and rested his cheek on top of the kid's head. This way Sam could sort out his feelings and let them all out, deal with them properly instead of keeping them in and hurting himself in the process. Dean was loathe to admit it, but the fucking curse might come in useful for something.

“Today,” Sam said, stopping abruptly, raising his wet, blotchy face to look at Dean with determination. “Today, Dean.”

He didn't have to ask to know that Sam was talking about Castiel's funeral. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay, Sammy.”

 

They did it just after sunset. Dean made the pyre while Sam got the lighter fluid and matches. It was a hunter's funeral, of course it was, because Castiel deserved nothing less than the highest honors they could give him.

Neither of them said a single word as they lifted Castiel's body up to the pyre and liberally poured lighter fluid on it. They didn't say anything even as Dean put Castiel's trench coat on the pile and Sam put down a thick, sealed and unmarked envelope. Dean didn't know what was in it, and he didn't ask.

Time seemed to come to a standstill after that. Both of them stood side by side, staring, unsure of what to do. Where did you go from here, anyway? Dean thought absently that he should probably get the fire started, but he couldn't bring himself to move his arms or to even _think_ , and it all felt so very unreal.

Next to him Sam was holding back tears but not quite succeeding, if the choked little sobs that escaped him were anything to go by. Dean wanted so badly to comfort him, to hold him and tell him it was okay, but it _wasn't_ , and he couldn't _move_ , and he just didn't know what to do.

He wasn't sure which one of them reached out first, but it didn't matter – their fingers fumbled for each other and held on tight, interlaced, and they stood pressed together from shoulder to hip, Sam's entire body shaking with the force of his cries. There was wetness on Dean's own face and he wanted to wipe it off, because if he let himself cry it meant that what was happening was _real_. Still his arm felt like lead and there was a lump in his throat so painful it was like a sharp-edged rock stuck in there, pressing down on his windpipe, inhibiting his breathing.

Besides him Sam took a few deep breaths, inhaling like his lungs couldn't get enough oxygen, as he attempted to get himself together. His free hand was clutched over his heart, and he looked so small and young, hunched in on himself, that it broke Dean's heart. He wanted to wipe those tears off his face and protect him from everything in the world – never mind that Sam could look after himself just fine, it didn't inhibit Dean's protective instinct in any way.

He squeezed Sam's fingers just as Sam shuddered into silence, wiping at his face with his free hand. “Let's, let's do this,” he said hoarsely, squeezing Dean's fingers back. “Let's get this over with.”

Dean nodded at him, released his hand and took one step closer to the pyre. “Goodbye, Cas,” he said softly. “You were family.” He didn't know what else to add; for him, the word “family” encapsulated perfectly what he felt for the angel. Castiel had helped him and Sam, he had been (mostly) there for them when they needed him (Dean was determined to remember only the good and none of the bad) and for all of his flaws and shortcomings... he _had_ been like a brother to Dean, and to Sam.

Sam stepped up as well, and reached out one hand shakily to touch where Castiel's face was under the clean white shroud. “Bye, Cas,” he whispered. “I'll... I miss you.” He took his hand away and took a step back towards Dean, their shoulders brushing lightly. The small contact was infinitely comforting.

With hands that were somehow steady Dean lit a match. He stared into the tiny flame for a few moments, and thought _this is it, this is finally it, this is how the angel ends_ and before he could dwell too much on it and therefore find himself ultimately unable to do it, he grasped Sam's hand tight with his free one and flicked the match onto the pyre.

The flames rose almost instantaneously, and Sam and Dean both took a step back, away from the burning heat. Sam's grip on Dean's hand was so tight it felt uncomfortable, but Dean couldn't find it within himself to say or do a single thing about it, other than holding on just as tight.

Sam was crying again, softly this time, no sobbing, but it still broke Dean's heart to see. Without stopping to think about it – he didn't have to, never did when it came to Sammy – he let go of Sam's hand and wrapped both arms around him, held him close to his chest and didn't say a word as Sam began shaking again. His own tears were dripping steadily now, falling into Sam's hair and creating tiny wet spots on his jacket.

There was no point in offering consolation, so Dean didn't. What could he say, anyway, when his own mouth felt like it was lined with shattered glass? What _was_ there to say, when your friend had died to save your brother and no matter what, you couldn't bring yourself to feel–

 _No point going into that now,_ Dean thought grimly, rubbing Sam's back in soothing circular motions. _At least, not without a bottle of Jack_. He kissed Sam's temple and held him tighter still, and they both cried silently into each other's shoulders as the body of their friend burnt to ashes beside them.

 

Afterwards, when all was said and done, Sam cited a headache and retreated to his room, and Dean got himself settled in the war room with a book and a bottle of whiskey. His hands were still steady as he poured himself a glass and downed it one go before pouring another, a thick tome lying open in front of him. There was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't identify. It wasn't grief; he was no stranger to it and he knew how it felt, and this was not grief.

He drank some more and he stared at the book, trying to distract himself from the weird feeling in the hopes that it would go away. He read up on ancient merpeople myths and the known history of wendigoes, but the feeling just seemed to grow the more he tried to ignore it. Presently he got up, tried to ignore how everything seemed a bit hazy round the edges, and stumbled over to Sam's room.

Sam was asleep, curled under the covers, silvery tear tracks glistening on his face in the dim light. He'd fallen asleep crying, then, and Dean's heart clenched. He made his way inside the room, careful not to trip or do anything that would wake his brother up (he honestly did not fancy ending up on the business end of the gun Sam kept under his pillow), and knelt down on the floor next to Sam's bed, just watching his chest rise and fall with each breath.

Reaching out, he brushed some of Sam's hair away from his forehead, unable to help a small smile when Sam mumbled something inaudible and leaned into the touch, even in his sleep. Dean kept his hand on Sam's forehead until his brother stilled, and then pressed a kiss to his cheekbone before getting to his feet and heading back towards the war room.

He stared blankly at his book as he downed another glass, thinking. Castiel was dead. Sam was cursed, and even the littlest bit of strong emotion was magnified hundredfold. He'd cried so much in the past couple of days it was a wonder he wasn’t dehydrated. He looked thin and weak, exhausted, shadows under his eyes and a perpetual weariness in the set of his shoulders.

But God, Sammy was _alive_.

It hit Dean with the weight of a freight train, what the nauseating feeling in the pit of his stomach was. It was the realization that even though he'd lost someone he considered family, even though he knew Castiel was gone, wouldn't ever come back... he couldn't bring himself to wish that Castiel hadn't taken the blade meant for Sam. Because that would mean Sam's death, and Dean just wouldn't have been able to survive that. To lose the Mark would mean absolutely fuck-all if he'd lost Sam as well, and as such Dean couldn't bring himself to wish that Castiel hadn't jumped in front of the blade.

Did he wish Castiel was alive and not currently ashes in the wind? Of course he did, he wished it with every fibre of his being, so much that it was a sharp-edged pain in the lining of his chest. But if it meant that Sam would die?

Well, Dean had always known that there wasn't anything – or anyone – that he wouldn't give up for Sam.

The realization came with the sickening feeling of bile rising in the back of his throat, and Dean got up, staggering his way to the nearest bathroom and falling to his knees in front of the toilet bowl. He vomited until his stomach was empty, the whiskey even more bitter coming up than it had been going down, and then he retched until his throat hurt and his stomach felt like it had been wrung and tied into knots.

He rested his head on the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, ignoring the hot tears going down his face. Cas was dead. _Dead_ , and all Dean could think of was how glad he was that it wasn't Sam, Jesus, what kind of shitty friend was he?

He didn't know how long he sat there. It could have been minutes or hours or just about forever, as far as he was concerned. Time just didn't seem to matter anymore, nothing seemed to matter but Castiel's death and Sam being alive because of it, and Dean's utter hatred of himself for thinking of it that way, for seeing everything through the lens of _Sammy_. But then that was the entirety of it, wasn't it? He was never going to stop putting Sam above everything else, he was never _ever_ going to stop seeing things through Sam-tinted glass.

He staggered to his feet when it got too uncomfortable to continue sitting there and flushed the toilet, before bracing both arms on the sink and looking at himself in the mirror. He looked a right mess, dark shadows under his eyes, lines over his red, splotchy face, hair sticking out in all directions, eyes bloodshot. Sighing to himself and grimacing at the terrible aftertaste in his mouth, he splashed cold water over his face, rinsed out his mouth and made his way back to the war room.

He checked on Sam before sitting down. The kid was still fast asleep, though he'd moved around a bit and was now lying on his stomach, one arm dangling off the side of the bed. And despite everything that had happened so far, Dean couldn't help but smile again.

He went in and adjusted Sam's comforter, making sure it covered as much of him as possible, and tucked his arm under it as well. Sam's face was tense and weary even in sleep, but honestly the fact that he was even getting any rest was a miracle in itself, and Dean wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least _one_ of them could sleep.

He'd just turned to go when Sam's hand reached out and grabbed his wrist, and he looked down to find Sam blinking sleepily up at him. “Dean? You okay?” he asked, words slurring due to his exhaustion.

Dean nodded and attempted a smile. “Yeah, Sam, I'm okay,” he said quietly, letting Sam tug him closer and sitting down on the bed, his free hand on the side of Sam's face that wasn't pressed into the pillow. “You?”

“Could be worse,” Sam muttered. Dean supposed that was true; he could be crying or having nightmares, and since neither had happened yet he could only count it as a blessing. But they would happen, sooner or later. That, Dean did not doubt at all.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” he said with a soft smile, even though it felt like the small movement might crack his face into half. “I'll wake you in the morning.”

“Mm,” mumbled Sam in reply. “You need to sleep too, Dean.”

“I know, and I will,” Dean assured him. “Just as soon as I know you're okay.”

“I'm okay,” Sam said at once, looking earnestly at him, eyes wide. He looked _so young_.

Dean swallowed, willing away the tears that threatened to pool in his eyes. “I'm just gonna go close shop, all right?” he said to Sam, gently swiping his thumb over Sam's cheekbone. “I was reading, I'll just put the book back, and then I'll sleep. Swear.”

Sam didn't look satisfied, but he made a noise of agreement anyway. “You better,” he said, and Dean knew he was probably aiming for stern but he just sounded so, so tired.

“Sleep, Sam,” was all he said, standing and letting Sam's hand fall from his. He waited till Sam made himself comfortable and closed his eyes, and didn't leave until Sam's breathing evened out into the deep, slow pattern of slumber.

Dean managed to get down one more shot of whiskey before feeling sick again, so he just gave up, put the bottle back and washed the glass, finding small comfort in the mechanical motions of the process. This felt like normal, more or less, it was routine and it was easy. This, he could do.

He put the book back in its shelf and turned the lights out on his way to his room. Once there, he stripped down to his shorts and undershirt and got into bed, making sure his gun was loaded and ready under his pillow. Just in case. Some habits never did die, after all.

But he couldn't sleep. He'd known he wouldn't be able to, of course, but the tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling blankly still drove him insane. It wasn't even that his brain refused to shut off or anything – on the contrary it felt blank, empty, like he was simply too exhausted to even feel sad anymore. It was just that he felt cold, so unbelievably cold, and he didn't understand why, seeing as he was bundled up inside his thick, warm comforter.

And he felt alone. Just because he was too tired to be sad didn't mean he wanted to be alone in his dark, empty room, tossing and turning and struggling to get some shut-eye.

Finally, with a half-muttered half-growled curse and an emphatic “ _ugh_ ” he got out of bed, grabbing his pillow. He didn't bother with shoes – his socks would be enough protection from the cold stone floor of the bunker. Quietly he made his way over to Sam's room, entering cautiously so as to avoid waking his brother up.

Sam was still in the same position, except he'd moved somewhat to the side, which was good because it freed up some space for Dean. He set his pillow down next to Sam's and slowly, carefully got into bed with him, waiting tersely for Sam to wake any moment. It didn't happen, though, which was testament to how out of it Sam really was. Dean didn't let him relax until he was quite sure his brother wouldn't wake up.

It seemed to do the magic trick – the warmth of Sam's body pressed against his back made Dean relax almost without him realizing it, not until he yawned and noticed that he finally, _finally_ felt the day's fatigue catch up with him. Yanking the comforter gently over himself – _careful, Sammy's asleep_ – he closed his eyes and was asleep in a moment.

 

And that was how it went on after that. Sam was quiet and reserved except for when he couldn't hold his grief in any longer, and then he would break down. Mostly Dean was there when it happened and he managed to calm Sam down, but sometimes Sam would just shut himself in his room and not come out until it was over. Dean understood, and tried to give Sam his privacy when he could. Some things you just had to face alone. At least Sam wasn't keeping it _all_ in – he felt no shame in coming to Dean anymore, and that was one thing Dean was infinitely grateful for.

Sam he could handle. Himself, he wasn't so good with. Every night after Sam went to bed, he would sit in the war room and drink until the world was hazy and he couldn't think straight anymore, which, if he was being honest with himself, was preferable to thinking of Castiel, thinking of his ashes in the wind, thinking of how Dean was so, so glad it hadn't been Sam instead.

And when Dean was drunk off his ass and unable to think at all, he would put the bottle back and head to Sam's room, and get into bed with him. He knew Sam knew about the drinking; Sam mentioned it to him every now and then, but he did the usual and deflected every time, much to Sam's chagrin. The hurt look on his brother's face when he refused to have a proper talk cut him deep down, but he didn't know what else he could do. He couldn't think of any other way to deal with it when everything got too overwhelming. Sam had an outlet – he could cry it all out because he had no other choice. He was too drained to even be angry anymore, so all he did was cry. Dean didn't have that. He couldn't make himself let it go even when he tried. His eyes remained stubbornly dry and his heart remained as heavy as it had always been.

It was one week after Castiel's funeral that the nightmares began, for both of them. Honestly Dean was surprised they hadn't happened sooner. It started when Sam woke up screaming in the middle of the night, waking Dean up as well. It had taken Dean twenty minutes to calm him down, to assure him that they were both okay and it had been “just a stupid fucking nightmare, kiddo, we're fine, you're fine.” Sam refused to tell him what the nightmare had been about, but Dean didn't have to guess too hard, going by the way Sam's eyes filled with tears the moment he accidentally let slip, “Cas could help with the bad dreams.”

Cas was never coming back.

When Dean's nightmares began it was the usual – Hell, the rack, Sam dying in his arms, Sam bleeding out, Sam hurt, Sam crying, Dad's death, Mom's death, Ellen and Jo... anything and everything his brain could throw at him. Then it turned to Castiel's death, and Bobby's, and Purgatory and Benny, and sick memories of what he'd tried to do to Sam when he'd been a demon. It always ended in the usual – Sam dead, covered in blood, and Dean screaming his name as he woke. And every time, Sam would wrap his arms around him and hold him close until his heart rate and breathing went back to normal and the world stopped tilting on its axis.

They developed a routine after a few nights of trial and error. During the day time they would just sit together in the war room or the small TV room, sometimes talking in hushed voices but mostly just sitting in silence, taking comfort in each other's presence. Dean would cook for them, nothing too big, just sandwiches and pasta and anything else that could be prepared in under half an hour. Neither of them had much of an appetite anyway.

They didn't take any hunts, and any calls they got for backup were diverted to someone else in the hunting community who was close enough to help. They spent their evenings watching TV or reading, sitting across from each in the war room, or watching old Men of Letters archive footage. Sometimes Dean would drag Sam out for a walk and some fresh air, and do his level best to ensure that nothing set him off.

And at night Dean would drink until he couldn't anymore, and then he would get in bed with Sam and wrap his arms around him and hope it would be enough to keep the nightmares at bay. Sometimes it was and sometimes it wasn't, but it was the only thing that made Dean feel warm enough for him to be able to sleep. It was the only thing that drove home the fact that he wasn't alone and as long as he had Sam, he never would be.

 

Slowly but surely Sam started getting better. The uncontrollable crying episodes began decreasing in number, and so did his nightmares, though neither ended completely. They just dwindled down to a level that Sam could control, and that he was grateful for. Dean called Crowley once to ask about the curse, and Crowley told him that Sam was progressing at a favorable rate. He'd sounded oddly subdued, and it was only when Dean hung up that he understood that Crowley was terrified of them. Both of them, but Sam especially. _Good_ , he thought to himself grimly.

Two weeks after Castiel's funeral, Sam began losing sleep. Dean would wake up at odd times of the night – or morning, depending how you looked at it – and find Sam's side of the bed empty, always just slightly warm like he'd missed Sam only by a few minutes. He would get up and go down to the war room, where he would inevitably find Sam propped up in a chair, reading some awfully fat book about something ancient and boring as hell. He'd ask “You okay, buddy?” and Sam would smile tiredly at him and reply “Yeah, 'm fine, just couldn't sleep” and then Dean would smile too and try to coax him back to bed.

But the nightmares grew less and less frequent, for both of them, so there was that, at least.

Charlie called once, asking if she could drop in. Dean took one look at Sam and said, “I'm sorry, kiddo, but no can do. We just... we're not really in a – uh – well, it's not a good time, kiddo, I'm sorry.”

“Swear I won't get in your way,” she implored, and Dean could just imagine her pouting at the phone.

“Sorry,” he said again, and he meant it. “But we just can't right now.”

She sighed. “All right, all right. Just promise me you'll call me if you need me, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean agreed, knowing even then that he wasn't going to be calling her any time soon.

Sam looked at him with something akin to gratitude, and Dean gave him a warm smile as if to say _no need to thank me, buddy, we'll see her when we're ready._ Whenever that day came.

 

The third week after Castiel's funeral, Sam started looking for cases.

“Whatcha up to?” Dean inquired one fine morning, sitting down across from him at the war room table with a platter of sandwiches.

Sam offered him a tired smile, and slid the laptop across to him. “Thought I'll look for a job,” he said quietly. “It'll give us something to focus on.”

“Thought we were taking some time off,” Dean said, looking at the webpage Sam had pulled up, something about animal attacks up north.

“We've had enough time,” Sam opined. “Dean, if I spend one more day in this place I'm going to lose whatever's left of my mind.”

Dean watched him, reading his face, and then dropped his gaze back at the laptop. “This is too far away, Sammy.”

“So I'll find something closer,” Sam retorted, tugging the laptop back towards himself.

“You really wanna do this, don't you?” Dean asked, his sandwich forgotten.

Sam nodded, biting his lower lip. “It'll give me something to focus on, other than Cas,” he said quietly. His eyes filled up at having to say the angel's name out loud, but other than that he kept himself together, more or less. Dean felt proud, but he figured now was probably not the time to say so.

“Okay, Sammy,” he said. “But I have conditions, okay? One, it can't be something more than half a day's drive away. Two, nothing too difficult. Three, we stick together, okay? No matter what happens, we don't split up.”

Sam looked surprised. “You're not gonna fight me on this?”

“Nah,” Dean replied. “Truth be told, baby boy, I've been feeling restless myself. Maybe you're right, maybe this is what we need to get back into the swing of things.”

Sam smiled hesitantly at him, gratitude on his face. “Thank you,” he said softly, reaching out to touch Dean's hand before snagging his sandwich.

“Sneaky,” grumbled Dean, but he was fighting a smile of his own. Things weren't normal yet but they seemed to be getting there, slowly but steadily.

 

They went on three hunts in a week, all angry spirits, all of them successfully put to rest. Dean noticed a change in their sleeping patterns after the first hunt itself, but it became especially obvious after the second.

They both slept through the night now, five days out of seven, and they no longer had to cling to each other through the night to feel safe and warm. The curse seemed to be weaker as well, and Sam seemed more and more in control of his emotions every day. He still had episodes where he wept, though, but they were fewer and far between, and for that Dean was grateful.

While hunting, they always went for two queens, their usual – except now one of the beds was used to dump their shit on, and the other for both of them to sleep in. Just because they didn't _have_ to leech warmth and safety off each other anymore didn't mean that they didn't want to, and honestly Dean would swear up and down on a stack of Bibles that both of them always slept better when they shared a bed. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had become so, but he wasn't about to complain about it anytime soon.

Sam would still wake up early, though, and it was usually after he'd had a nightmare. Dean didn't comment, not even once, which he knew was uncharacteristic for him (he might not be perfect but he _was_ self-aware, no matter what Sam said) but he also recognized that some things you just didn't talk about, and this was one of them. So instead he would just wrap a fleece blanket around Sam's shoulders, ask him how he was doing and then make his breakfast and coffee just the way he liked it.

 

Two months after Castiel's funeral Sam woke up screaming fit to burst a lung, and Dean had his gun out and aimed in the dark for a solid thirty seconds before he realized Sam wasn't under attack, even if he _was_ flailing wildly and hitting Dean with his limbs. Breath catching in his throat – the sound coming from his brother's throat was entirely too reminiscent of the panic room and forced detox – Dean flipped the lights on and saw that Sam was thrashing, his skin white and sweaty, the muscles of his neck standing out as he strained. There were tears running down his face as well, and immediately Dean was shaking him, one hand over his chest and the other on his back, trying not to freak out at the rapid thudding of Sam's heart under his fingers.

“Sammy, hey, come on,” he said, trying to hold Sam still and not get hit in the face at the same time, “it's me, kiddo, come on, you gotta wake up. It's just a dream, Sam, just a dream, it's not real–”

Sam's eyes flew open and he came to with a gasp, almost knocking Dean away as he looked around wildly, chest heaving. “Dean,” he managed a moment later, his voice hoarse. “ _Dean_ ,” he repeated again, voice small and helpless, and before Dean could do anything, launched himself into his brother's arms and held on tight.

“Hey, it's okay,” Dean said, his arms automatically encircling Sam, one hand on the back of his head and the other rubbing circles into his shoulder. “You're all right, Sammy, I've got ya.”

Sam shuddered, and Dean realized he was crying, sobbing quietly but forcefully into Dean's shoulder. “Shh, shh, I've got ya,” he repeated, tightening his embrace, his lips pressed to a spot just behind Sam's ear. “It's okay, kiddo, let it all out,” he soothed.

And Sam did. He cried and cried and cried, and it was just as bad as his initial episodes, and it terrified Dean but he didn't know what he could do about it other than wait and see if it got worse or better from here on out. And Sam had been doing so well, too. Dean just couldn't understand what had brought this on, when Sam hadn't had a nightmare in a week or cried more than a few tears in just as long.

“What was it?” he asked a few moments later, when Sam was drawing deep, shuddering breaths, trying to get himself under control.

“C-Cage,” Sam stuttered out, his fingers fisted tightly in Dean's shirt, face pressed into his shoulder. There was a large wet spot there from Sam's tears, but Dean couldn't be assed about it right now. “I was in the Cage.”

 _Oh, Sammy_ , thought Dean, and his heart broke for his brother, his strong, strong brother who was now curled in his arms and sobbing. Not for the first time he wondered what had happened to Sam in there. Sam had never said, and Dean knew that he could poke and prod for the rest of his life but Sam was never going to tell him. But it was without a doubt terrifying, seeing as Death himself had built a wall to keep it out. That breaking that wall had made a mess out of Sam, an insomniac, scared, tired mess. That dreaming of it now had Sam screaming fit to wake the dead _and_ explode his own lungs probably.

Dean put his hands on the sides of Sam's face and raised it so that he could look him in the eye. Sam's skin was splotchy, his nose and ears pink, eyes red from all the crying. Not for the first time Dean noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the lines carved into his face, and his heart broke some more for Sam.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly but firmly, wiping away Sam's tears with his thumbs. “It was a dream, okay, Sammy? You're not in there anymore. You're with me now, here. _I'm_ real. This, here, me and you, _that's_ real. You get me, Sammy? You understand what I'm saying?”

Sam nodded, keeping eye contact. Good, that was good, it meant he was listening and that he believed Dean.

“No matter what, Sam, I won't let anything happen to you,” Dean promised, and even though it was usually a hollow promise, what with their lives, this time Dean meant it. He would wrap Sam up in cotton and drive him far far away if that was what it took, but by God he would never let anything hurt Sam, not even himself. “You're safe, baby boy, you're okay,” he assured him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I've got you, and you've got me. We'll get through this.”

There was a pause during which Sam just watched him, his gaze intense and piercing, and then he slowly brought his hands up and wound his arms around Dean's neck, linking his fingers. Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and he let Sam bring their faces closer, until their foreheads were touching. “We're all right,” he said quietly one more time, closing his eyes, feeling Sam's warm breath fan out across his face. “We're okay.”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered. “Yeah, we are.”

## NOW

Sam blinks in surprise when Dean suddenly pulls over and parks the Impala on the shoulder of the road. “Hey, why are we stopping?” he asks.

Instead of answering, Dean shuts off the engine and throws open his door, getting out into the cool night air. Sam follows, nonplussed.

Dean grabs their spare blanket from the backseat, and then he goes round to the trunk and brings out the icebox, dragging it to the front of the car. Sam watches curiously as he puts the blanket on the hood, gets the lid off the icebox and grabs two beers, uncapping them both and holding one out to Sam. Sam takes it but doesn't sip it just yet. “What are we doing?”

In response Dean just grins and climbs up on the hood of the car, his legs braced against the fender. “Come on up,” he says to Sam when Sam doesn't follow immediately.

“Why?” Sam inquires, frowning slightly at his brother, and at the beer in his hand.

Dean rolls his eyes affectionately. “Just do it, bitch,” he says, and there is infinite tenderness in his voice.

Sam huffs half-heartedly but obliges anyway, sitting down next to Dean on the hood of the car, feeling the heat of the engine seep in through his clothes and provide a comfortable warmth. They'd left the motel just after checking out time, not stopping for anything in the town, and Dean drove all day and half the night, refusing to let Sam take over with the excuse that he was convalescing.

Dean grins brightly at him and then wraps the blanket around both of them. It's old and worn out but it smells like home and it's enough protection against the chilly night air, and Sam can't help but curl into it, feeling content all of a sudden.

“Look,” Dean says, and Sam follows his gaze, craning his neck upwards. The sight almost takes his breath away.

Hundreds upon thousands of stars shining bright against the night sky, looking like someone sprinkled them liberally on black velvet. It's a full-moon night and the moonlight spills down on them, providing enough light to see each other without having to resort to flashlights. They are way too far out in the country for there to be streetlamps, and for that Sam is grateful. They'd have ruined the amazing view of the night sky.

“It's beautiful,” he breathes, beer in hand but forgotten.

Dean chuckles, and his voice is heavy with fondness and nostalgia when he speaks. “Remember how often we used to do this? Every time there was a clear night, we'd park out in the middle of nowhere and just stare at the stars till morning.”

“I missed that,” Sam admits, still staring transfixed at the night sky. “It feels like forever ago.”

Dean makes a sound of agreement and sips his beer. “Figured this was one of our traditions that we should renew,” he says quietly. “What say, Sammy?”

“Why are you even asking?” Sam replies, and is pleasantly surprised by how light and happy his own voice sounds to him.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean's face break out into a wide smile. “Glad you're happy, Sammy,” Dean says, placing his free hand over Sam's. “Look, there's the North Star,” he points out a moment later, and Sam smiles when he sees it.

“Look, that's Ursa Minor,” he tells Dean, pointing it out with his beer bottle. “And that's Ursa Major.”

Dean laughs. “Geek boy,” he says, teasing but affectionate.

“Don't even start with me, Dean,” Sam retorts, looking away from the stars so he can grin at his brother. “This was your idea. You had to have known I wouldn't shut up about stars once you got me started.”

“I walked right into this one,” Dean agrees, mock-seriously.

“Yes, you did,” laughs Sam, and bumps lightly into Dean's side. Dean nudges him back, but then before Sam can retaliate he scoots closer, so that they're now sitting pressed together from shoulder to knee.

“We could go anywhere we wanted in the morning,” he says quietly some time later, looking down at their intertwined fingers, and then up at Sam. “We could do anything we wanted.”

“We could,” Sam agrees, sounding a little breathless even to himself. “Why don't we?”

“Waiting for you to ask, Sammy,” Dean says with a bright smile that could honestly put both the moon and sun to shame, thinks Sam. “So where do you wanna go, baby boy?”

Sam smiles back. “Let's go on vacation.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dean replies, smile growing wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The moonlight makes it look like he's glowing, and he looks _beautiful_.

“How about the beach?” suggests Sam, his own smile widening in response to Dean's, and God they're grinning like idiots but he just doesn't care, can't bring himself to worry about a single thing at all.

“Perfect,” Dean says. He releases Sam's hand and wraps an arm around him, bringing him in close so that Sam's head rests on his shoulder. “Perfect,” he repeats, and presses a kiss to Sam's temple. They sit there, side by side, in comfortable silence until morning, and then they get in the car and drive off into the sunrise without a single glance into the rear-view mirror.

###  **THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to apologize for any mistakes I may have made when it comes to canon, as well as for any spelling, punctuation and grammar errors that may have been overlooked. I assure you, that was all me and Dri had nothing to do with me, that poor soul that I've been torturing with this fic. Bless her, seriously.
> 
> So this has been an incredibly fun ride, and I'd like to thank the SPN_J2_BIGBANG community over at LJ for making it possible. You guys are fucking _awesome_ , man, for putting that together every year, and I am so grateful. Thank you guys so much <3
> 
> Feedback, comments, random screaming in the inbox... anything and everything is greatly appreciated, guys. Both Yuri and I put a lot of hard work into this and we'd love to see what you guys think of it. So please drop by a comment on your way out, maybe?
> 
> [remy's tumblr.](http://chesterbennington.co.vu)   
>  [yuri's tumblr.](http://thebritishteapot.tumblr.com)
> 
> Love,  
> Remy and Yuri x


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